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Chronicles of a F 


arm 


House 


By 

WINFIELD SCOTT SLY 

Author of 


“Anneeti, The Gypsy Artist”, “Biography of Babe”, 

“El-Rasched”, etc. 


A TRUE LIFE STORY 


“A farmer’s life is the life for me, 
I own I love it dearly; 

Every season full of glee 
I take its labor cheerily.” 



Published By 

CERE ROOT SPECIALTY COMPANY 

LANSING, MICHIGAN 
1923 







Copyright 1923 
by 

WINFIELD SCOTT SLY • 
All rights reserved 
Printed in U. S. A. 


Cover Design: 
Edward Goddard Cooke 
Lansing, Mich. 


Book Binders 
Wagenvocrd & Co. 
Lansing, Mich. 


Printers: 

Wynkoop Hallenbeck Crawford Co 
Lansing, Mich. 


NOV 14 ’23 

C1A759356 



To the Memory 
of 

Two Honest Farmers, 

MY PARENTS, 

This Volume Is Lovingly 
Dedicated by the 
Author 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 

View of the Farm House .Page 12 

The Old Spinning Wheel. “ 29 

View of Lockwood from the Farm House. “ 44 

The Two Harvests. “ 88 

Sunset and Rest. “ 267 


[4] 







CONTENTS 


Chapter 


I. 

Home. 

II. 

Prosperity. 

III. 

A Bad Custom Renounced. 

IV. 

A Social Party. 

V. 

A Social Party Reviewed. 

VI. 

New Decisions. 

VII. 

Separations. 

VIII. 

More Decisions. 

IX. 

Farm House Pleasures. 

X. 

War. 

XI. 

Sorrow. 

XII. 

Sad Tidings. 

XIII. 

The Two Harvests. 

XIV 

Trials and Reunions. 

XV. 

Doomed Issues and Customs. 

XVI. 

Changes and Crosses. 

XVII. 

Self Denial or Defeat. 

XVIII. 

College and Callings. 

XIX. 

College and Callings (Continued). 

XX. 

Alive From The Dead. 

XXI. 

An Evil Traffic. 

XXII. 

Wrecks. 

XXIII. 

True Friendship. 

XXIV. 

Go Work In My Vineyard. 

XXV. 

Infidel and Invalid 

XXVI. 

Out Of The Snare. 

XXVII. 

A Brand Plucked From The Burning. 

XXVIII. 

Hope Deferred. 

XXIX. 

The Darkest Hour. 

XXX. 

The Dawn Of Day. 

XXXI. 

A Dark Picture. 

XXXII. 

Renewed Hearts —A Happy Home. 

XXXIII. 

Working and Waiting. 

XXXIV. 

Reaping The Harvests. 

XXXV. 

Sunset and Rest. 

XXXVI 

Retrospect and Prospects. 


FOREWORD 


As a number of gems are strung together and fastened with a 
clasp, so “Chronicles of a Farm House” is a collection of facts 
that have occurred in the Author’s experience and knowledge, 
and are here united on a thread of fiction. 

Rosamond, the central figure, around which many incidents 
center, is introduced to the reader, to illustrate the stirring 
events that are occurring in many an obscure home, as well as 
to inspire hope and enduring fidelity in those who may be suf¬ 
fering trials, or living under a cloud, such as shadowed her own 
young life, until the silver lining shined through. 

So dependent are people in city and country on each other 
as producers and consumers, it is well for each class to under¬ 
stand its relations to the other. 

In the quiet life of the farm homes are being developed those 
sterling qualities of body, mind and morals that are too largely 
lacking in city life, and which are to chiefly shape the social, 
religious, commercial and political destinies of the nation. 

Covering, as the story does, the closing years of American 
slavery and the Civil War; the growth of Woman’s Suffrage 
sentiment, and the development of the Temperance Reform and 
National Prohibition, these subjects enter largely into the per¬ 
sonal narratives presented. 

Attempt at literary style has been unsought in the earnest 
desire to present a simple narrative that will interest the young 
and edify also those of riper years. 

If each reader’s heart and home, in city or country, shall be 
made better and brighter by the perusal of these pages, I shall 
remember with pleasure the labor of their preparation. 

w. s. s. 

Lansing, Mich. 


[6] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


Chapter I 


Home 

On one of the avenues leading off from the main street in 
Lockwood, far enough away to avoid the noise and bustle of the 
town, stood a cozy, red house. 

Built in the center of a large yard and surrounded with trees, 
it made a pretty picture. 

The house itself was a low framed, old fashioned one, that 
had been built for many years. 

It had no porch; only one broad stone step led up to the 
weather beaten door. Thin, tiny panes of glass, filled the win¬ 
dows and were covered with vines that reached to the over¬ 
hanging eaves. 

Near the Southwest corner of the house stood a mammoth 
locust tree, which was covered each year with a profusion of 
snowy blossoms, whose fragrant sweetness attracted the bees 
from their hives near the garden fence. 

To the large apple tree near by was tied the swing—the 
swing with its broad board seat that afforded a tempting oppor¬ 
tunity to swing, even to the branches of the tree itself. 

Near the back of the house, covering the deep dug well, 
stood the well curb, with its windlass and long chain, attached 
to the 

“Old oaken bucket, 

The iron bound bucket, 

The moss covered bucket, 

That hung in the well”. 




Chronicles of a Farm House 

Near by was the kitchen door, from which often issued such 
tempting odors of baking tarts and pies, and more wholesome 
food. 

A long stretch of grassy lawn from the rear of the house to the 
garden fence offered the children a fine place for a race or a 
game of tag. 

The garden itself was a thing of beauty, with its paths bor¬ 
dered with flowers from Spring until Autumn. From its shapely, 

• well kept beds were gathered ample supplies of berries and 
vegetables. 

Still beyond lay the fields and meadows, through which a 
rippling little brook wound it way. 

In such a home, before which passed the daily stage from 
Chicago to Juliet, lived for a time Sanford Seely and his family. 

Two years before, he and his wife and three children—Edward, 
Rosamond and Rosalie—came from the East. After paying 
their fares to Juliet, Mr. Seely had only sufficient money to buy 
a small stock of provisions and an axe with which—after hav¬ 
ing moved his family into a small log house a few miles from 
town—he began to cut the heavy timber near by, to supply the 
canal boats with fuel, as they passed up and down the canal. 

The next Spring the red house with its small farm was rented. 

Not until more than a year old was Rosalie named; then, 
because her plump, rosy cheeks resembled so much the June 
roses in full bloom before the dining room window, her brother 
Edward wished her named Rosebud. His mother replied that 
■“rosebuds do not always remain buds, and she would not 
always remain a little girl,” so she proposed the name—Rosalie. 

Her sister Rosamond—then four years old—who was playing 
in the room—came and put her arms around the baby’s neck; 
she kissed her again and again; then relaxing her embrace she 
stepped back a short distance and looked at her in profound 
silence. 

“Why, Mother!” she exclaimed with a childish laugh, “I 
am going to call her ‘Rosa,’ so you can have two ‘Rosas’ all 
the time.” 

“Yes, and they are both very sweet and pretty,” said Mrs. 


[S] 


Home 


Seely, as she left the children to amuse each other while she 
went about her household duties. 

By industry and economy, Mr. Seely succeeded in accumu¬ 
lating several hundred dollars, besides what rent and the care 
of his family required. 

In the meantime, two sons were born; the eldest Walter, the 
other Martin; so that the increase of her family cares required 
Mrs. Seely’s full time and strength. Rosamond—now a dark¬ 
haired, gentle girl of twelve years—gave much thoughtful 
attention to the younger children, besides rendering—when 
not attending school in Lockwood with her older brother Ed¬ 
ward-—much assistance to her mother in other ways. Rosalie 
was not to continue long with them, for when the youngest 
brother was two years old a fever soon burned away her strength 
and after many days of patient suffering she fell asleep, to— 
“Awake, .... 

In the dawning of the morning.” 

The final service was held in a church in Lockwood, where 
she had occasionally attended Sabbath services with her 
mother, who, wearied with the week day’s family cares, as was 
Mr. Seely with his toil and close attention to business, attended 
no place of public worship regularly; and yet, while not pro¬ 
fessing to be religious nor members of any church, they were 
known and esteemed by all for their strict morality. They 
practiced in their daily life the virtues they instilled into the 
minds of their children—truthfulness, honesty, industry and 
in a kindly manner exacted from each child a strict obedience. 
At the funeral of Rosalie, the younger boys entered a church 
for the first time. 

To Walter, especially, was it an exciting experience; never 
had he been in so large a building, except the barn at home; he 
gazed at the ceiling and over the pews filled with people, and 
up into the gallery where the singers were seated. 

When his curiosity was, in a measure, satisfied with these 
and his wonder, at the crowd of people assembled somewhat 
abated, he looked at the white-haired minister standing in the 
high pulpit. 


[0] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


While he could not understand what was being said, still he 
felt impressed by his earnest manner. As he saw the tears 
coursing down the minister’s cheeks, he said to himself, “that 
man feels sorry too, because Rosalie has died.” 

As he sat and looked at and listened to the minister, filled 
more and more with wonder, a voice seemed to whisper to him, 
as if in his very heart, “little boy, that is what you will do when 
you become a man.” 

The sun was sinking low as the family returned from the 
cemetery. 

While the children seemed to realize but feebly the sorrow 
death had brought to their home, and Mr. Seely was borne up, 
and maintained a calm reserve in expressing the deep feelings 
of his heart, not so his wife; for, in the death of Rosalie, she had 
sustained the loss of a companionship that was growing more 
efficient and sweet each year. 

As time passed, something each day would remind Mrs. Seely 
of the absent one; her heart would melt and the blinding tears 
would fall; at this the younger children wondered and Rosa¬ 
mond would act the part of a comforter and endeavor to soothe 
her mother’s aching heart and dry her tears. “Mother,” she 
tenderly asked, “has not Rosalie gone to live with the angels, 
and will she not be happy there? ” 

“Yes, darling,” she replied, “but mother is sad because she 
has only one Rosa now.” 

As she pressed the child to her heart, she seemed to feel her 
love grow deeper and broader for this, her only daughter, and 
she impressed a mother’s kisses again and again upon her 
cheek. 

“Mother,” said Rosamond excitedly after such a caressing, 
“what makes your face and hands so hot? They almost burn 
my cheek.” 

“I do not know, my child,” was the reply, “only that I feel 
very weary; but I must hasten and prepare supper for your 
father will soon be home from his work.” 

She went about with languid steps; just as the evening meal 
was ready Mr. Seely came. No sooner had he entered the door 


[10] 


Home 


and seen the flushed cheeks of his wife than he exclaimed, with 
alarm, ‘‘Are you sick? You look as if you have a fever.” 

Taking her hand, he led her to the couch. After he and the 
children had eaten supper he went, without delay, to Lockwood 
for the physician. 

In an hour they returned together. While the physician 
examined Mrs. Seely’s condition her husband put the younger 
children in bed; coming into the room he looked anxiously at 
his wife, then turning to the table, where the doctor was engaged 
in doing up some medicine in small papers, said: 

“Doctor, what do you think is the matter with my wife?” 

“Well,” he answered, after some hesitation and in an under¬ 
tone, “I fear she is threatened with a fever such as your little 
daughter had; but we must break it up, if possible. Give these 
powders every two hours, and I will call early in the morning.” 

It proved as he feared, and so deeply seated was the fever that 
only by the most skillful treatment and careful nursing was life 
preserved; but not until the long winter had passed and the 
early spring—with its balmy air, its singing birds and opening 
bloom—had come, was Mrs. Seely able again to take charge 
of the interests of her family; then she began to realize how 
loving and helpful Rosamond had become; during her mother’s 
sickness she had been like a little mother to the younger children. 

Having accumulated sufficient money, Mr. Seely decided to 
buy a small tract of land and build a home of their own. 

The labor of clearing timbered land was so great he decided 
not to repeat the toilsome experience of his father and his own 
boyhood in the virgin forests of the East. He decided, therefore, 
to seek a home on the “rolling prairies,” where each child could 
be located on a farm near him when they were grown. 

He was offered a tract, fully within his ability to purchase, 
lying between his present home and Juliet, on which were ex¬ 
tensive deposits of stone, that lay in strata varying from a few 
inches to many feet in thickness; but the newness of the country 
led him to think it would be so many years before there would 
be any demand for the stone that he declined the offer—little 
thinking that before his youngest boy would be of age, a railroad 


[11] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


would be built through it, and a great state institution be lo¬ 
cated on the land, the inmates of which—together with private 
parties and rich corporations—would be engaged in quarrying 
the stone and shipping millions of dollars worth, by railroad or 
canal, to the rapidly growing cities of Chicago and Juliet, be¬ 
sides filling orders from distant places where the fame of the 
stone had gone. 

Passing westward a couple of miles upon the broad prairies, 
that lav like a beautiful lawn, decked with flowers—which could 
be plainly seen from the front door of the red house where he 
was living—he decided to purchase a larger tract there and for 
less money than he could have done where timber or stone was 
found. 

There, having built a plain and comfortable farm house, he 
moved his family. 

It seemed an inspiring omen, as they alighted at the door of 
their new home, that the birds sang so sweetly and the busy 
bees hummed about from flower to flower, which were strewn 
in rare profusion up to the very doors and far away to the north 
and west, while the bright May morning sun cast a sheen of 
glory over all. 

A new life seemed to course through Mrs. Seeley’s veins; a new 
light shone in her eyes and a tone of gladness was in her voice 
as she, assisted by Rosamond, busily engaged in adjusting fur¬ 
niture, dishes, pictures and books. 

The younger boys gathered huge bouquets of wild dowers, 
and chased the many colored butterflies here and there, while 
Edward went with his father, who began to turn over the 
prairie sod—in long, black, ribbon-like furrows—with team and 
plow. When the field was plowed it resembled a plaited sheet 
in black. Then Mr. Seely and Edward, each with a dull axe, 
walked the length of the field on an upturned sod and every 
few feet would strike his axe into it; after dropping a few 
grains of corn, with an occasional squash or melon or pumpkin 
seed, into the gashes, they would press the openings together 
with their heels; thus the whole field was planted in rows a 
yard or more apart. 


VIEW OF THE FARM HOUSE 

(See Page 12) 



















Home 


When the corn was nearly ripe and the pumpkins, melons 
and squashes had been gathered, winter wheat was sown 
broadcast and covered by running a harrow between the rows 
of corn. In one season the soil was thus subdued, three crops 
planted and two gathered from it, with another maturing, 
which seemed to Mr. Seely a great saving in labor, as compared 
with clearing stoney or timbered land. 


[ 13 ] 


CHAPTER II. 


Prosperity. 

Mr. Seely believed that much is made by saving as well as by 
making; he felt the need of barns and sheds to protect machinery 
from exposure when not in use, a§ well as for storing grain and 
sheltering his horses and cattle; therefore, as soon as his corn 
was planted, he began to collect and prepare material to con¬ 
struct a barn and fence the planted fields. 

As the prairie soil needed little or no working the first year, 
he had ample time to cut what wild grass his stock would 
require for hay, besides considerable quantities for merchants 
and others who kept horses or cows in Juliet and Lockwood. 
As the first cost of the grass was nothing, the sales of hay paid 
handsome returns for the labor expended in cutting it, although 
done by hand with the old fashioned scythe—there being no 
reaper or mower in the neighborhood. 

Having stacked the hay in the open field, ready to be drawn 
to town when the work for Summer and Autumn was over on 
the farm, Mr. Seely engaged carpenters to assist him—he being 
a good mechanic himself—and the timbers were soon framed 
and the barn ready for “raising.” 

Invitations were sent to the farmers scattered here and there 
over the prairies to come with their sons and hired men to 
assist according to the custom when a barn was to be built. 

Mrs. Seely was very busy for several days—assisted by Rosa¬ 
mond and the boys—cooking doughnuts and pies made from 
pumpkins that had lain like mammoth oranges scattered 
through the cornfield. 

The evening before the appointed day, Mr. Seely arose from 
the supper table and said: “I must drive over to Lockwood 


[ 14 ] 



Prosperity 


and procure some nails and other articles necessary in handling 
and fastening the barn timbers in place.” 

Turning to Edward he said, “My son, you can go with me 
if you wish.” 

When they had hitched the team to the “democrat,” as the 
light wagon was called, they drove to the gate; by his father’s 
instruction, Edward ran bounding up the path that led to the 
house and called to his mother to hand him the black jug with 
the cob cork in it. 

“Why, Edward!” said Mrs. Seely, “tell your father we do 
not need any molasses or vinegar, as w^e have plenty in the 
house.” 

He went out, but returned to the door, which Mrs. Seely 
opened just as her husband said to him, “I want it for another 
purpose.” 

“If you get oil in it, Mr. Seely,” she asked, “what will we use 
to carry milk to Aunt Carrie?” 

“I don’t wish to get oil,” he answered. “You know, Sarah, 
the neighbor’s will be disappointed and provoked if I do not 
provide a good supply of rum or whiskey, for everybody does it.” 

“But, Sanford,” asked Mrs. Seely, “don’t you think a good 
dinner and plenty of tea and coffee, with a lunch in the forenoon, 
will satisfy them? Somehow, I feel afraid to have you offer 
them whiskey, for John Giddings and Mart Eldred always 
drink too much and are quarrelsome when under its influence; 
I am afraid they will hurt someone; I don’t think the rest will 
blame you for not getting it.” 

“Well, I would rather not get it,” said Mr. Seely, “but we 
have just come into the neighborhood and I want to be on good 
terms with the farmers; if I see anyone drinking too much I 
will take the jug away.” 

Mrs. Seely went reluctantly to the pantry and brought out 
the old black jug they had purchased and filled with molasses 
when they began housekeeping. As she handed it to Edward 
she said to him, softly: “You must keep close to your father, my 
son, when he goes to get the jug filled, so you will not get hurt 
by anybody.” 


[ 15 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

“I will,” Edward replied; hastening to the wagon he climbed 
in; he and his father were soon out of sight and sound. Mrs. 
Seely sighed deeply as she closed the door and resumed her work. 

After the supper dishes were cleared away and the smaller 
children were in bed, she and Rosamond sat down together 
with their sewing. Both were silent for some time, then Rosa¬ 
mond spoke and said, “What is father going to get in the black 
jug?” but as Mrs. Seely hesitated to answer her, she contin¬ 
ued, “you told Edward to tell him we have everything we need, 
and the baking is all done for tomorrow.” 

“He is going to get whiskey for the men to drink tomor¬ 
row,” her mother replied at last. 

“Why!” said Rosamond, “I should think the men would not 
dare to drink it, as they are going to work so high and walk on 
such narrow boards and timbers! 

“Oh, I am afraid some of them will fall and be killed or 
injured! 

“If John Giddings comes he will surely get drunk; you know 
he does every time he goes to town; how he drives when he 
goes home; it seems as if he would fall out of his buggy; and 
how he talks! 

“Why, it fairly frightens me when I see or hear him. I feel 
so sorry for his wife and little Reta; how sad they must feel 
when he comes home in that condition! 

“Uncle Joel, Aunt Carrie and my cousins will be here; Uncle 
Joel will drink, too; you know how cross he is to them when he 
has been drinking. 

“I am so glad father does not get drunk! 

“I do wish he would not get anything for the men to drink.” 

It was quite late when Mr. Seely and Edward returned; when 
they entered the house Rosamond noticed that her father 
seemed very thoughtful and her brother was very much excited. 

When she and Edward went to their rooms for the night they 
stopped at the head of the stairs and Edward said, “I tell you, 
Rosamond, I was awfully scared tonight!” 

“What was it?” his sister inquired, eagerly. 

“Well, I don't know what made him do it, but when father 


[ 16 ] 


Prosperity 


got the jug filled at the tavern, in a room where there were lots 
of bottles and barrels, and several tables at which some men were 
drinking and talking very loudly, one of the men hit another with 
his fist, then threw his tumbler at him, striking him on the 
forehead, cutting him awfully; the man fell flat on the floor. 

“Father and Mr. Gray—who owns the tavern—picked the 
man up and laid him on a bench. 

“A young man, who seemed to be a clerk in the tavern, took 
the tumblers from the table where the men had been drinking. 

“In a few minutes a doctor came and pretty soon a woman 
opened the door and hurried over to the bench where the man 
w 7 as lying. As soon as she saw his face, she began crying; she 
asked the doctor if he would die.” 

“What did the doctor say?” asked Rosamond with deep 
anxiety. 

“Oh,” said Edward, “he told her ‘no; that he was only 
stunned; he would get over it, although the wound was a bad 
one;’ he told her ‘not to be alarmed, but go home and as soon 
as her husband came to himself they would bring him 
home.’ \ 

“Oh,” said Rosamond, as the tears filled her eyes, “was the 
woman his wife? Have they any children? Did the woman 
go home when the doctor told her to?” 

“No,” said Edward, “she told him she would wait and help 
take him home; several other men came in; as it was getting 
late, father said we would have to come home.” 

Bright and early the next morning Mr. Seely’s family was 
astir—the children all up in time for breakfast, filled w T ith ex¬ 
cited expectation. When nearly through breakfast Rosamond 
glanced toward Edward and said, “I wonder how that man is 
this morning?” 

“What man?” asked Walter. 

“You tell him, Edward,” said Rosamond, and the incident 
was rehearsed in all its details. 

“Who was the man that was injured?” Mrs. Seely inquired 
of her husband. 

“I do not know,” he replied, “but I think the man who struck 


[ 17 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

him was from Juliet; he left the room in the confusion and I did 
not see him again. 

“If I had not had my jug filled before the affair occurred I 
would not have bought any liquor for today; I heartily wish 
there was not a drop of the wretched stuff made; as long as it is 
made men will drink it; some don’t seem to know when they 
have had enough.” 

Breakfast was soon over. By ten o’clock a large number of 
men had arrived and were soon engaged in putting the barn 
frame together. 

Everyone was in good humor. The sills were quickly laid 
and pinned together, after which the corner posts were set and 
stayed. Cross pieces and plates were adjusted; just as the bell 
was rung for dinner the men were ready to begin putting on 
the roof frame to receive the rafters. 

Those men who had worked on the ground laid their tools 
down; the men on the frame came down the ladders set for 
them, except that some, more agile than the others, threw 
their arms and legs around the corner posts and slid to the 
ground. 

John Giddings, who was very quick and strong when sober, 
had been working up on the frame, running along on the plates 
as nimble as a squirrel; he was assisted by two others who were 
sure-footed, cool-headed young fellows. 

“Well, Mr. Seely,” said John as he sprang to the ground, 
when five or six feet from the bottom of the ladder, “how does 
the job suit you so far? Don’t you think we are a pretty lively 
lot of fellows out here on the prairies?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Seely, “I never saw a barn frame put to¬ 
gether quicker, and no mistake or accident has occurred; now 
we will get ready for dinner.” 

He w r as about to lead the way to the house—congratulating 
himself that no one had called for stimulants to drink—when 
Mart Eldred—a short, thick-set young fellow—said, “Ain’t 
you going to let us have something to give us an appetite, Mr. 
Seely?” 

“Tut, tut, Mart,” said Mr. Seely, pleasantly, “hasn’t your 


[ 18 ] 


Prosperity 


long ride this morning and the forenoon’s work made you hun¬ 
gry enough to enjoy your dinner?” 

Laughing, he started toward the house, hoping the men 
would not insist on having anything to drink. He very soon 
discovered John Giddings, Mart Eldred and several others were 
not following. 

“It won’t do, Mr. Seely,” said an elderly man to him; “it is 
the custom here; we all did it, who have had ‘barn raisings;’ 
the men will be angry and leave without even getting their din¬ 
ner; you will need everyone of them this afternoon.” 

Seeing “custom was law” in the neighborhood, Mr. Seely 
called to a young man—whose red, curly hair made him a 
marked figure—“James, you will find a black jug in the granary 
behind a large box; bring it to the house and let the boys help 
themselves. Walter,” he called to one of his boys, “run to the 
house and bring some tumblers, spoons, and a bowl of sugar.” 

Taking the jug to the well, James called to the men to 
come and get their “appetizer.” 

With a shout, fifteen or twenty of them came running after 
him; taking the tumblers from Walter they poured liquor into 
them from the jug. Some drank it down just as it was; some 
put sugar in it and filled the tumbler with water and drank it. 

Mart Eldred and John Giddings were among the number 
who drank theirs clear, and each took two or three glasses 
apiece before they quit and went to dinner. 

Walter looked at the men as they drank; they seemed to like 
it so well he made up his mind he would try some when they 
were gone, but just then his mother called him to come and 
help her and Rosamond, so he failed to get a taste of the cov¬ 
eted beverage. After dinner some of the men helped them¬ 
selves again and continued to do so at intervals during the 
afternoon until none was left in the jug. 

The men who drank were all more noisy and less attentive 
to their work than in the morning. Several times Mr. Seely 
had to have some changes made because they had not noticed 
the parts that were marked to go together. One of the men, 
unable to steady himself, while holding the end of a large stick 


[ 19 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


of timber, dropped it and just saved himself from falling; the 
stick went crashing through the frame work to the ground, 
barely missing the old gentleman who counselled Mr. Seely to 
let the men have whiskey; it landed on Mart Eldred’s left foot, 
injuring it so badly that a doctor had to be sent for; he was so 
under the influence of what he drank that he did not sense 
much pain; after the doctor dressed his foot he was taken 
home and for many months could not walk. 

Some of the men needed on the frame could not work there, 
so dizzy were they from drink, hence, when a heavy shower 
came up late in the afternoon, Mr. Seely was glad of an excuse 
to stop the work, because the men were becoming too stupid to 
do as they were told. Two of them began to quarrel and fight, 
cutting and bruising each other badly. 

The carpenters came the next day to help complete the work, 
when Mr. Seely said to them, “If I had it to do over again, I 
would not furnish nor allow whiskey to be used by the men if 
the barn was never raised.” 

After the men had gone to their homes that evening, 
while Mr. Seely and the hired man were milking, Mrs. Seely and 
her children, together with Aunt Carrie and her girls, were 
seated at the supper table. During their conversation Rosa¬ 
mond took occasion to tell what Edward had seen the night 
before. His aunt appeared very sad. 

“I tell you, Aunt Carrie,” said Rosamond, as her cheeks 
flushed and her eyes sparkled with excited indignation, “if I 
ever get married and my husband goes to such places and 
drinks whiskey and gets hurt, I won’t go near him.” 

“Well,” said her aunt, with a sigh, “I hope you may never 
have occasion to test your determination, for I think it will 
not be as strong as it is now.” 

Rosamond did not realize how much her aunt’s life was being 
filled with sadness, because her husband frequented such 
places and treated her harshly after returning home under the 
influence of strong drink. 


[ 20 ] 


CHAPTER III. 


A Bad Custom Renounced. 

\ 

The barn was completed in time for winter. 

Mr. Seely and his wife and Rosamond went away for a visit; 
they left the three boys and the hired man—a jolly young Irish¬ 
man named—John Magorrah, to care for things. 

John was very fond of “grog,” as he called alcoholic stimu¬ 
lants. Evenings he would put the tea kettle on the stove; 
then, bringing a bottle from his trunk, would make himself a 
bowl of “sling;” each of the boys was treated to a cupful—with 
the injunction not to tell their parents; while they sipped their 
beverage, John would sing Irish songs, in a style so musical and 
racy, the boys were delighted; especially did they enjoy his 
singing the chorus, 

“Little brown jug, shure I love thee; 

Little brown jug, grom-o-ra-gre.” 

The boys began to like the taste of the drink very much; 
some nights they would feel so “happy,” they would join John 
in his singing. 

The weather was growing very cold; snowdrifts forming in 
the roads, made it difficult for teams to pass. 

Edward was awakened one very cold night by hearing some¬ 
one calling piteously for help. 

Hastily dressing, he went to the door and found an old man 
nearly frozen, and so intoxicated he could hardly stand; he did 
now know where he was. 

Helping him into the house, Edward built a fire and called 
John; while they were putting the man’s horses in the barn the 
drunken man laid down upon the floor before the stove and 
soon fell asleep; he snored so loudly that Walter could not 
sleep; he got up and dressed then sat down by the stove. 


[ 21 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


A spark of fire snapped out and fell on the old man's hand. 
He groaned deeply but did not wake up; Walter was glad, for 
he felt afraid to be alone with a drunken man. 

In the morning John learned the name of the strange guest; 
he found he was one of his own countrymen who lived only a 
few miles away; having harnessed and hitched his horses to his 
wagon John took him to his home refreshed by his sleep and 
nourished by the breakfast and hot coffee Edward had pre¬ 
pared for him. 

Walter told his mother and Rosamond about the old man 
when they returned home, and asked them what affected the 
poor man so badly. Mrs. Seely told him it was the same thing 
that caused the men to quarrel at the tavern. 

“Yes,” said Rosamond, “and it was that which father got 
for the men at the ‘raising,’ that made some who drank it fight 
and stagger about and fall down.” 

“Very true,” said her mother; “I hope, Walter, you will 
never touch or taste it.” 

He then remembered that the smell of the “sling” John gave 
him was just the same as that which the men drank from the 
jug at the well; he began to know why John did not want him or 
Edward to tell their parents about the “grog” he gave them. 
He soon saw further effects of strong drink. 

An old farmer living West of his father’s farm was passing, 
on a high load of wood; he stopped and descended to the ground 
to help a passing teamster who had turned from the road in 
front of Mr. Seely’s gate to repair a broken wagon; climbing to 
his place upon his load he lost his balance and pitched head¬ 
foremost, striking his head upon the frozen ground. Mr. 
Seely and Walter, who were splitting and piling wood in their 
yard, saw the accident and ran to help the teamster lift up the 
fallen man. He lay perfectly still; Walter thought he was 
dead, and nearly fainted, he was so frightened. The man re¬ 
gained his senses in a little while, then, a neighbor passing, 
helped them seat him on his load and went home with him. 

“What made the man fall off his load, father?” asked Walter, 
when they returned to their work. 


r22i 


A Bad Custom Renounced 


“He had been drinking too much,” said Mr. Seely. 

“Drinking too much what?” Walter inquired. 

“I don’t know,” his father replied, “but I suppose it was 
whiskey; that makes men drunk.” 

“Well, I don’t ever want to get drunk,” said Walter, “and take 
such a bump on my head as that man did.” 

“I hope you never will, my son!” his father replied, 

The winter passed and the beautiful Spring returned once 
more. 

Mr. Seely and his family celebrated their first anniversary 
in their new home. It had been a prosperous year. Mrs. 
Seely had entirely regained her health and strength. Rosa¬ 
mond had become so helpful and willing that the work was 
greatly lightened for her mother. 

The boys were full of animation; they took great delight in 
planting seeds of different kinds in parcels of ground their 
father had assigned them for gardens. 

Martin—who had taken his mother’s card of buttons to the 
garden when he was quite small and planted them, let his 
secret out, when he asked Walter “why the buttons did not 
grow?”—had learned the nature and origin of things—what and 
how to plant. 

More of the prairie soil was plowed, one of the younger boys 
walking beside the oxen, occasionally touching them with the 
long ox whip, while Mr. Seely or Edw^ard held the plow handles.. 

More corn w T as planted on the sod, as had been done the year 
before. 

By July, the wheat that had been sown among the corn the 
previous Autumn was ripe enough to harvest. 

Mr. Seely made inquiries for help which was readily found. 
The men, in addition to their wages, board and lodgings, de¬ 
manded from a pint to a quart of whiskey per day, for 
each. 

Mr. Seely—having seen so much quarreling among harvesters 
and so many terrible accidents where they had whiskey to drink— 
and that was almost everywhere that harvesting was done— 
indeed he had followed the custom and furnished it himself 


[ 23 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


when living in the red house—firmly resolved he would not 
furnish it now, nor hire a man who used it. 

The conduct of the men at the raising of his barn made him 
still more decided. The men whom he had engaged refused to 
work when they learned whiskey would not be furnished; 
therefore Mr. Seely, Edward and John—the hired man—began 
the harvest alone. As they had no reaper, Mr. Seely cut the 
grain—laying it in even swaths—with an old fashioned cradle; 
John raked and bound it into bundles or sheaves, which Ed¬ 
ward carried and “shocked up” in long rows. 

The excessive heat and hard work prostrated Mr. Seely 
during the second day; he was confined to his bed with sickness. 

To lose his crop of wheat would be a heavy loss; so, when 
John asked him if he should get some help, even if he had to 
furnish them liquor, he finally consented. 

John hailed four men who were passing along the road look¬ 
ing for work. One of them, who seemed to be a leader—a very 
intelligent man, but whose face was very red and his nose 
badly blotched—said: “We will work for going wages, board 
and lodgings, with what whiskey we want.” 

John told Mr. Seely and they were engaged. When dinner 
time came the men were informed there was no whiskey in the 
house, but some would be procured that night. 

The men were suspicious they were gong to be cheated out of 
stimulants and began to talk angrily. John told Walter he had 
some and they could have that. Mr. Seely was so informed 
and sent word to John to let the men have it, and he should be 
repaid for it—although he was very much surprised when he 
learned John kept a bottle of whiskey in his trunk. The men 
took their drinks in the woodshed, leaving the bottle and tum¬ 
blers on a shelf when they went in to dinner. 

Walter, who had been out in the garden, came into the wood¬ 
shed; he smelled the .odor; looking about, he saw the bottle, the 
same John had taken from his trunk, with the contents of which 
he had made the “sling” for the boys and himself the previous 
winter. 

Seeing the tumbler, with s small quantity of sugar and whis- 


[ 24 ] 


A Bad Custom Renounced 


key in the bottom, lie hastily drank it; although it made his 
mouth and throat smart for a moment he liked it and was about 
to take down the bottle, but was afraid he might break it or 
spill the contents; turning away he entered the kitchen where 
his mother and Rosamond were cutting pies to be carried to the 
table. 

As he came near her, Mrs. Seely suddenly laid down her 
knife; putting her hand upon his shoulder, she asked, in a 
troubled tone, “Walter, what have you been doing?” 

“I have been working in the garden,” he replied evasively; 
“the peas are all hoed and the onions are half weeded; I am aw¬ 
fully hungry and my back aches.” 

“I mean, what have you been drinking?” his mother asked; 
“I smell your breath.” 

Walter colored deeply, but looking her in the face, he said, 
“Why, I just took the sugar out of the tumbler on the shelf in 
the woodshed; that won’t make me drunk.” 

“No, that will not,” she said, “but, little by little, the taste 
is formed; after a while you will want more and more; then you 
will get drunk and do just as others do in the same condition.” 

Walter felt sorry his mother had smelled his breath, for he saw 
she was very sad about it; he did not dare to tell her how he 
did like that which he drank from the tumbler, nor how anxious 
he was to take more from the bottle. 

His father, calling from his sick room, asked him for a drink 
of water; when Walter handed it to him, raising his head from 
the pillow, he was about to drink, but suddenly stopped. Turn¬ 
ing toward him, his father gazed steadily at him for a moment, 
then, without saying a word, he drank a little of the water, as 
though it caused him pain to swallow it, then handing Walter 
the tumbler he dropped his head upon the pillow. That after¬ 
noon Rosamond overheard her father and mother engaged in 
an earnest conversation in the bedroom; although her father 
was very feeble, at times his voice could be heard plainly say¬ 
ing: “Well, Sarah, this is the last time. I will let the grain 
rot in the field before I will allow it again; I will discharge 
John if he drinks or brings liquor onto the premises.” 


[ 25 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

“It would be much better,” replied Mrs. Seely, “for if our 
boys form a taste for it, we cannot tell where it will end, if it is 
where they can get it.” 

“I should not have had any this year,” said Mr. Seely, “if I 
had not taken sick, but it seemed impossible to get my wheat 
cut any other way; this must be the last time.” 

As soon as Mr. Seely w T as able to walk about, he gave direc¬ 
tions so that Edward and John, aided by a couple of neighbors, 
although with great difficulty and extra work—owing to the 
careless manner the sheaves were bound by the half intoxicated 
harvesters—were able to stack the wheat ready for threshing. 

During the autumn and winter Mr. Seely talked with some of 
his neighbors about the matter; some who had boys agreed 
they would have no more whiskey used in their hay fields nor 
in harvesting; if they could not hire help they would combine 
and help each other. That they did from year to year until 
men were willing to work for regular wages without intoxicating 
drinks being supplied. 

John, having learned from the boys that Mr. Seely would not 
allow him to have liquor on the place any more, was very shy 
about getting it or letting it be known; he liked to work for Mr. 
Seely and did not wish to lose his place. 

The boys were playing in the corn crib one day however— 
one holding the old cat, while the other threw aside the corn 
among which the mice were hiding; when they ran out the old 
cat would spring and catch them, sometimes having two in her 
mouth and one under each paw, while her eyes were rolling 
wildly at those escaping through the holes in the crib. 

The boys were enjoying the fun, as was the cat. They were 
becoming greatly excited w T hen they discovered something black 
and shiny underneath the corn; quickly uncovering it they 
found a large jug. 

They tried to take out the cork, but could not. They knew 
by the odor it contained whiskey; by the sound and weight as 
they tried to take it up and shake it they knew the jug must be 
nearly full. 

“Whose is it?” asked Martin. 


[ 26 ] 



A Bad Custom Renounced 


“It is John’s,” Walter replied; “if father knows he has it he 
will send him away; if John don’t drink it he won’t get drunk; 
so let us hide it where John can’t find it.” 

Taking the jug from the crib, they managed to carry it to the 
workshop; putting it under a bench they covered it with 
shavings. 

They promised each other they would never, “nev-er, n-e-v-e-r 
tell anybody”. It was a great secret; very frequently during 
the afternoon and evening, with sundry private conversations, 
and many whisperings in the corners of the room, they charged 
each other not to tell. These confidential interviews, although 
unheard were not unseen by the family. 

Rosamond and their mother frequently asked them what 
mischief they were hatching up? Their only answer would be 
a wise and knowing look at each other, which was not unob¬ 
served by John. After eating his supper, he went out and fin¬ 
ished his chores at the barn; returning when it was quite dark, 
he sat down by the kitchen fire, looking very dejected; he said 
nothing, however, that evening, but went to bed earlier than 
usual. 

When he went to the crib to get corn for the horses and 
pigs he evidently saw that someone had scattered it about and 
he also missed his jug. The next day he asked the boys who 
had been moving the corn? They feared at once they were 
found out, but Martin said: 

“We did it; we were catching mice; we got lots of them, but 
some got aw^ay; Brownie couldn’t catch them fast enough; if 
we had kept all her kittens they would be big enough to catch 
mice now.” 

They were about to run away for fear John would ask them 
more questions about the corn and the secret would leak out; 
he held up two shining pieces of silver coin and said: “Come 
here, b’ys, an’ o’il gev yees these if yees’ll tell me, did yees 
foind anything ilse in the earn besoides the moice?” 

Martin was about to tell him—for money was so rare an 
article of possession he could hardly resist the desire to get it by 
telling. 


[ 27 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“Keep still, Martin!” said Walter; “don’t you tell; you know 
father said he would not have anything on the farm that would 
make men drunk.” 

John was quite startled at the remark; he plainly saw, how¬ 
ever, the boys had found his jug. With true Irish wit, he re¬ 
sorted to a bit of flattery, saying, “Mishter Saly is a gintleman 
ivery day in the wake, an’ yees are foin b’ys; shure, Rosamond 
is as swate a gurril as ony in the ould counthry; may the saints 
presarve us,” he added, crossing himself, “an’ oi’ll niver dhrink 
anither dhrop but pfwaht’s in the jug.” 

The boys were very much impressed by John’s solemn man¬ 
ner and the promise he had made; yielding to his flattery and 
pleading—they both promised him they would not tell their 
father—then led the way to the hidden jug. 

John gave a broad grin as he lifted it out of the shavings; 
handing the boys the money—a piece to each—he took a long 
drink; “but that’s foin!” he exclaimed, as the boys ran away to 
play; the jug was hidden again in a new and safer place by him. 

Mr. Seely’s firm adherence to his purpose ceased to be an 
occasion of remark or censure by most of his neighbors. He 
had no difficulty in getting his work done. He enjoyed the 
satisfaction of knowing he was putting no temptation in the 
way of his boys that would lead to intemperate habits; no fear 
entered his mind of sorrow ever coming to him or his home on 
account of strong drink. 


[ 28 ] 








THE OLD FASHIONED SPINNING WHEEL 

(See Page 29) 








CHAPTER IV. 


A Social Party. 

When Air. Seely moved his family to their new home many of 
the rooms were occupied in an unfinished condition, notably so 
the parlor and the chamber where the boys and hired man slept. 

The winter months, before their completion, were occasions 
of frigid experiences; the driving blasts often forced the snow 
through each crack and crevice between the siding, sifting it 
in a snowy sheet over the bed where Walter and Martin slept 
“spooned up” or locked in each other’s embrace; the first move 
in the morning precipitated a small avalanche of snow in upon 
them, being the signal for a merry shout and a scamper down 
stairs to dress behind the stove in which their father had a 
roaring fire. 

Having now completely paid for his farm and what improve¬ 
ments had been made, Air. Seely employed what time he could 
spare from farm work in finishing the inside arrangements of the 
house. 

The close of the fifth season on the farm was approaching, 
during which Airs. Seely and Rosamond had been busily en¬ 
gaged—assisted by Walter and Martin—cutting and sewing 
carpet rags, which w r ere wound in large balls, each color by 
itself. These were taken to Lockwood and woven into a very 
handsome carpet, with a “feather stripe” in the center of each 
large stripe, made of bright colored rags—twisted to the size 
of large cord on an old fashioned spinning wheel, on which 
also the family stocking yarn was spun by Rosamond and her 
mother. The whirling spindle had a fascination for the boys, 
w T hose curiosity led to such a near approach, as often to result 
in drawing their hair around it, forcing a scream of pain from 
them and the sudden stopping of the wheel; the shears and a 


[ 29 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


shoiV lock [were [the only means of delivering the young “Ab¬ 
salom.” With the new carpet the parlor floor was covered, 
harmonizing with the plain furniture and pictures. The bed¬ 
room, opening out of the parlor, was furnished and kept for 
company or when any of the family were sick or needed quiet 
and rest. 

When all was arranged, Mrs. Seely consented that Rosamond 
and Edward should invite a company of their young friends to 
supper and an evening’s pastime. 

Mrs. Seely and her husband felt such satisfaction with the 
manner in which their older children had performed their duties 
they were glad to afford them this pleasure. 

The previous winter they entered company in the neighbor¬ 
hood; a few evenings were spent in sleigh rides; one, at an 
evening party in Lockwood, where they met many young 
people of the town, from whom they learned to dance. Some 
of these were invited by Rosamond and Edward. When they 
informed their mother that the guests from town wished to 
bring musicians and have music and dancing, which consti¬ 
tuted their principal entertainment at social gatherings, she 
demurred. After considerable thought and many misgivings, 
fearing the tendency of the amusement, and yet not wishing 
her children considered lacking in “up-to-date” hospitality, 
she finally gave her consent that the uncarpeted, smoothly 
painted dining room floor be used—as Rosamond sang—for 

“An hour of pleasure, 

In the mazy dance.” 

“Thanksgiving Eve” witnessed the assemblage of a large 
company; as snow had fallen the day before, they came in cutters 
and sleighs from town and country; the merry jingling of bells, 
with the cheerful laughter of lighthearted people, broke the 
monotony of the quiet farm house. 

Walter and Martin were fully awake to the merry sounds and 
cheerful greetings—running here and there, watching each new 
arrival alight upon the porch, after which John would take the 
reins, and, calling out, “Come on, b’ys, poile in!” the three 
would glide away to the barn; stabling the horses they hastened 


[ 30 ] 


A Social Party 


back to meet the next arrivals. By eight o’clock the parlor was 
filled, some standing, others sitting, all—especially those from 
town—more or less engaged in animated talk and banter. 

Walter was attracted by the elegant garments worn by the 
young ladies. Some were white as the snow, low in the neck 
and sleeveless; very thin and unsuited to the season—Walter 
thought. 

The country garbs and manners of some were in striking con¬ 
trast to those from town. The young men from the latter place 
showed more freedom in conversation, more familiarity with the 
young ladies. Walter heard one addressed as Clarence Farns¬ 
worth; he recalled the name at once of the young man Edward 
saw at the tavern, who removed the glasses from the table after 
the man was hurt. He appeared to be a favorite among the 
young ladies. He shook hands cordially with Edward and was 
delighted to meet Rosamond. As he held her hand some time, 
in low-voiced conversation, her cheeks were suffused with 
blushes. Following her, he entered the dining room, where 
Rosamond introduced him to her mother. Walter inhaled the 
odor of cloves or cardamon on his breath as he passed through 
the door. Sitting beside young ladies on the sofa Walter saw 
two of the young men who became intoxicated at his father’s 
“barn raising.” Samuel Morland and Joseph Reeves he also 
recognized and remembered their vile stories and profanity 
the previous Springtime while planting corn for his father. 

The sound of music was heard in the dining room. Young 
men bowed to their partners and led them to the dancing 
floor. Walter could not understand the meaning of the musi¬ 
cian’s words; he watched with eagerness the movements of the 
young men and women as they danced, in time with the music; 
whirling around each other, crossing the room backward and 
forward—forming a circle, as the musician called—what sounded 
to Walter—“lemonade cold;” as the room was quite warm, he 
thought it a very proper thing to have and hoped to share it— 
but just then the young men, each putting his arm around the 
waist of his partner, with her hands on his arms, her head 
almost on his shoulder—they swiftly moved sideways around 


[ 31 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


the room in a circle. They repeated the various movements 
again and again until the music ceased, when all returned to the 
parlor, apparently quite exhausted. 

Four other couples soon came to the dining room; new music, 
and different movements from the others followed. 

Among the dancers Walter recognized the young man who 
dropped the stick of timber on Mart Eldred’s foot at the “barn 
raising.” His face w T as very red. Walter wondered if the young 
lady with him knew he drank whiskey. He was very glad Rosa¬ 
mond was not dancing with him; then, remembering that 
Edward had seen Clarence Farnsworth—with whom Rosamond 
was then dancing—in the tavern where the men were drinking, 
he turned about and said to his father in a whisper: “Does that 
young man who is dancing with Rosamond drink anything that 
makes men drunk?” 

His father smiled, and said, “I guess not, my son; why do you 
ask?” 

“Because,” said Walter, “don't you remember he was in the 
room at the tavern the night you went to get the black jug filled, 
Edward said, after that man was hurt, Mr. Gray called a young 
man, named Clarence Farnsworth, who came and took the 
tumblers from the table, after which he saw him pour something 
from a bottle and drink it.” 

“Well, never mind, my son,” said his father, “that was a 
long time ago; he is not employed there now; he is clerking in a 
large store—where they do not sell anything bad.” 

“But couldn’t he go and get it somewhere if he wanted to?” 
asked Walter. 

“Yes,” his father replied, “but I hope he saw enough evil at 
the tavern to keep him from ever visiting such a place again.” 

Going back to the open doorway, Walter watched those who 
were dancing. He failed—child as he was—to see any pleasure 
in it; on the contrary, it impressed him as something wrong; 
he looked at Samuel Morland and Joseph Reeves and recalled 
again their conversation in the field about some of the young 
ladies present, as he and Martin dropped the corn for them to 
cover. While he had not understood the meaning of much 


[ 32 ] 


A Social Party 


they said—some of which was uttered in an audible whisper— 
he knew it must be wrong; now he wished his mother or Rosa¬ 
mond knew it, so they could advise the young ladies not to go 
with the young men or dance with them any more. He was 
glad when the dancing came to an end; he told his mother he 
never wished to learn. When a young lady patted him on the 
cheek and asked him to dance with her, he replied by saying, 
“It looks too silly to see folks acting so loving before people, 
and hopping about, sometimes almost falling down.” The an¬ 
swer caused all who heard it to laugh loudly—in which the 
young lady joined, at the same time her face was red with 
blushes. 

The musicians came to the parlor; they played a few familiar 
tunes, in which the young people who sang joined with the 
words popular at the time. Walter—indeed each one pres¬ 
ent—w r as especially attracted by the fine voice and singing of 
Clarence Farnsworth. 

Recitations followed; a young lady who had not participated 
in the dancing recited “The Raven;” when the cheering had 
subsided she read other selections of poetry and prose; Walter 
overheard several of those from Lockwood remark, “she is too 
awful solemn for anything; we want fun.” Supper was then 
served. 

In the morning Rosamond and Edward did not arise to break¬ 
fast with the rest, as their company did not leave until long 
after the younger boys and their parents had retired. 

Mrs. Seely, wishing to attend Thanksgiving services in 
Lockwood, her husband hitched up the gentlest horse to the 
“jumper” he had made the previous winter, and she and the 
boys drove to town. At the close of the services they drove to 
their Aunt Carrie’s with whom they ate dinner and spent the 
afternoon. The boys had a delightful time with their cousins, 
playing school and various games. Their mothers talked about 
sewing and housework and such other subjects as were suggested 
to their minds. 

Aunt Carrie was Mr. Seely’s youngest sister. She had 
married when very young—sixteen—too young, by far. Three 


[ 33 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


children had died in one week; the two surviving daughters 
were now her sole care. Her husband, much older than her¬ 
self, had formed the habit of visiting the tavern evenings, fre¬ 
quently remaining until after midnight, then coming home 
very much under the influence of strong drink. One of the chil¬ 
dren died one night, after his return home so intoxicated he 
could not go for the physician. About that time she became a 
devoted Christian, hence bore his unkindness and neglect with 
great gentleness and forbearance, hoping thereby to win him 
to a better life. She knew, before they were married, he drank, 
but had obtained his promise to drink no more. After mar¬ 
riage the habit grew upon him rapidly. At the tavern he spent 
so much time and money his family lacked life’s common com¬ 
forts; when a party started from Lockwood bound for the gold 
fields of California he accompanied it, expecting to make a for¬ 
tune in a day; thus his family was left wholly dependent on 
such a livelihood as his w T ife could earn with her needle. 

Mr. Seely built for her, in Lockwood, a small cottage contain¬ 
ing four rooms. 

During the conversation that Thanksgiving afternoon she 
spoke to Mrs. Seely about her children that were gone; as they 
were boys, “it is comforting,” she said, “to think they are be¬ 
yond temptation, and will never cause anyone sorrow by fol¬ 
lowing their father’s example.” 

“I should share your feelings, I presume,” said Mrs. Seely, 
after speaking of Rosalie, whose death she had never ceased to 
mourn, “if Mr. Seely was intemperate. He is so anxious 
about the boys; he has even given up the use of ‘cherry bitters;’ 
he will not allow intoxicating drinks used on the farm; so we 
do not feel that, with such an influence and example before our 
boys, there can be much danger of their going astray. As to 
Rosamond, you heard wdiat she said when Edward was telling 
us about the man at the tavern; she is very decided and thor¬ 
oughly dislikes anyone who is not strictly temperate. Your 
girls are growing rapidly toward young womanhood; with your 
experience and instruction before them you have nothing to 
fear on their account.” 


[ 34 ] 


A Social Party 


“If I was only sure of that!” said Aunt Carrie; “but who can 
tell what kind of husbands they will have if they marry? A 
young man will promise almost anything a young lady asks 
him to if he wants her to marry him; some will do it sincerely 
and really think they will fulfill their promise. Young women, 
you know, are very confiding; they put the utmost confidence 
in young men for whom they entertain a real affection. They 
fully believe their influence after marriage will strengthen every 
good quality a young man possesses and eradicate every wrong 
habit and moral weakness he has to contend with.” 

“Very true,” said Mrs. Seely thoughtfully, “but observation 
seems to indicate that they do not always understand themselves 
or each other fully; it seems to do no good to advise girls what 
to do in such a case; it seems impossible for them to understand 
by any argument short of experience.” 

Mrs. Seely observed a look of pain and sadness upon the face 
of her sister-in-law, which was so unlike the beautiful expression 
usually seen resting there, which in their girlhood days made her 
the “admired of all admirers.” Now also, her black, wavy 
hair was streaked with silver threads; frequent sighs escaped her 
lips like the trembling echoes of blasted hopes. 


[ 35 ] 


CHAPTER V. 


A Social Party Reviewed. 

Changing the topic of conversation which seemed so painful 
to her, Aunt Carrie inquired about Rosamond’s party. 

“Mr. Seely and I decided to afford them this pleasure,” Mrs. 
Seely replied, “as a reward, in part; also an encouragement, by 
showing our appreciation of their efforts to please us. Young 
people enjoy being together. Rosamond is nearly eighteen, 
Edward will soon be sixteen. We wish to give them all the 
advantage within our means. We do not expect to leave them 
great riches; but a fair education and a farm for each child we 
think will furnish them a good start in life. 

“Our district school is very well conducted by Mr. Kennedy, 
who boards at our house. Neither Rosamond nor Edward 
attended the fall term; I had so much work in the house and 
Mr. Seely had such a large crop of corn to husk, we needed their 
help.” 

“I hope they enjoyed the party as much as we used to when 
we were young,” said Aunt Carrie. “Don’t you remember the 
time we went sleighriding while living in ‘York State?’ A runa¬ 
way team ran against our sleigh, tipped us over, throwing us 
out into the snow. ” 

“Yes, I remember it very well,” said Mrs. Seely; “that was 
the time Mr. Seely was thrown under the horses feet and his 
nose was broken. I was very much frightened at the time, but 
when he recovered from the injury I was very glad the accident 
occurred, for he had such a large and homely Roman shaped 
nose; after it got well it did not look like the same nose; he 
looked so much better, I felt greatly pleased with the result.” 

At the foregoing view and statement of the case they both 
laughed heartily. 


[ 36 ] 



A Social Party Reviewed 

“Where had we been that night, Sarah?” asked Aunt Carrie. 

“If I remember correctly,” said Mrs. Seely, “we had been to 
Clyde. ’ ’ 

“Yes, we had,” said Aunt Carrie, after a moment’s thought; 
“ there was a New Year’s party at the tavern; I met my husband 
there for the first time. Mother did not approve my going to 
dancing parties. She said all kinds of people met together; 
but so many were going from our neighborhood she finally gave 
her consent. I did not know how to dance; I only wished to see 
the others and enjoy the sleigh ride. I was too young to have a 
beau, as I was only fifteen. We had been there just a short 
time when I was introduced to Joel. He asked me if I danced; 
when I told him I had never danced a single step he offered to 
teach me; he said ‘ all young ladies should know how to dance. ’ 

“After watching the rest for awhile, I was sure I could do it 
without making mistakes, at least no more than some others 
did. Joel went down stairs; after he returned I went on the 
floor with him. I noticed his breath smelled of brandy, but I did 
not think much about it. You remember how long the room 
was? So many were dancing and the music was so lively. 
I became very much interested. He kept telling me how well 
I was doing. 

“I learned the ‘Schottische’ and ‘Polka’ that night. He 
came after me several times that winter to attend parties with 
him. The next summer we were married. Mother asked me 
if Joel drank anything intoxicating. I replied that he did 
sometimes, but had promised to do so no more. I shall never 
forget the manner in which she said, ‘I am sorry you went to 
that ball in Clyde.’ ” 

“I should not want Rosamond to attend a public ball,” said 
Mrs. Seely, “but I can see no special harm that can come from 
dancing at a private house, where the company is specially in¬ 
vited; there certainly can be no temptation to mislead one 
there.” 

“Don’t you think,” said Aunt Carrie, “there is danger of 
young people becoming so infatuated with dancing they will 
not hesitate to go anywhere to engage in it? 


[ 37 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“I remember very well how completely I was carried away 
with it; I did not care where we danced nor who was present, if 
Joel was with me; I felt satisfied and safe with him. Were 
there any of the young people from Lockwood at your house last 
night?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Seely, “I think there were six young la¬ 
dies and some young men; the rest were young people who live 
in our neighborhood. I noticed quite a difference between 
them. Our girls—that is, Rosamond and those living near us— 
wore thick dresses, suited to the weather; the girls from town 
wore very thin dresses, with low necks and short sleeves. I 
must confess it made me cringe when I saw the familiar way in 
which some of the young men put their arms around the necks 
and shoulders of those young ladies on the dancing floor and in 
the parlor.” 

“Why, Sarah, did they dance at your house last night?” asked 
Aunt Carrie, in surprise. 

“Why—yes,” Mrs. Seely answered, with some embarrass¬ 
ment, w T hen she observed Aunt Carrie’s astonishment. “Ed¬ 
ward preferred a ‘candy pull,’ but when the young people in 
town were invited they asked permission to bring Mr. Hamilton 
and his son with their violins that they might dance a little while. 

“I told Rosamond it seemed to me they could dispense with 
the dancing; she said the young folks here are used to it and 
would consider her and Edward lacking in good manners if they 
objected to it, inasmuch as they had been invited to a party 
here and learned to dance. After they once began there was no 
time for anything but supper and a few songs and some verses 
read by Jessie Sawyer.” 

“Did Jessie dance?” asked Aunt Carrie. 

“No,” said Mrs. Seely, “she did not know how and said she 
did not wish to learn; she visited with Mr. Seely and me for 
some time; we took quite a fancy to her, she seems so sensible. 
Edward became acquainted with her last winter, so, at his re¬ 
quest, Rosamond invited her.” 

“What young men came from Lockwood?” asked Aunt 
Carrie. 


[ 38 ] 


A Social Party Reviewed 

“I think one they called Harry Channing; Rosamond intro¬ 
duced me to another named Clarence Farnsworth; I do not re¬ 
member the names of others,” Mrs. Seely replied. 

“Harry is a very good young man,” remarked Aunt Carrie; 
“I meet him at church whenever I am able to attend. Mr. 
Farnsworth is clerking in Mr. Golden’s store; he was employed 
in Mr. Gray’s tavern until a short time ago, when his friends 
became alarmed for fear he was forming too strong an appetite 
for intoxicating drinks; handling them every day was too great 
a temptation, so they persuaded Mr. Golden to let him come 
there. He is very polite; customers—especially ladies—like to 
have him wait on them; they say he is the best clerk they ever 
had.” 

“I hope he will not go near the tavern again,” said Mrs. 
Seely; “I should fell very sad, indeed, to have Rosamond go in 
company with him if he has bad habits, or if he does not choose 
good company. 

“He asked my consent last night to take her to a party Christ¬ 
mas eve; I consented, but told him I did not deem it best for 
her to be from home very many evenings as she is attending 
school. He said he fully endorsed my judgment, but the 
holiday vacation would give her ample time for recreations 
and rest also before school begins again.” 

“I am glad, Sarah,” said Aunt Carrie, “that you said what 
you did to him about Rosamond’s school; here the young people 
are so excited over their dancing parties the teachers complain 
about their neglect of school work. Some are out two or more 
nights each week until midnight and often later; sometimes at 
private houses; frequently they meet at the tavern ball room. 
Of course it will undermine their health as well as unsettle their 
minds for study.” 

Looking out of the window just then Aunt Carrie saw her 
pastor—Elder Palmer—entering the gate. Laying aside her 
knitting, she went to the door—as he rang the bell—to greet 
him. As she opened the door and invited him in, he shook her 
hand cordially. 

Having introduced him to Mrs. Seely, she took his hat, over- 


[ 39 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


coat and gloves. When all were seated the conversation passed 
naturally from general topics to morals and religious duties. 

Mrs. Seely took occasion to say, “We were discussing social 
customs and amusements when you entered, Mr. Palmer; we 
would be glad to know your opinion and ask your advice.” 

“Of what particular custom or amusement were you speak¬ 
ing, Mrs. Seely?” he inquired, pleasantly. 

“We were speaking especially about young people’s parties,” 
she replied. 

“Indeed,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “I have formed a 
profound love for young people, having been young myself. 
I entertain a very high ideal for them; but, I must say it with 
sorrow, the most of them are delighted with what unfits them for 
attaining the highest and best; I almost despair at times; I 
should always despair, were it not that now and then one and 
another catches my idea and approves, then practices the meas¬ 
ures necessary to attain such excellency in youth as will lead to 
true nobility in manhood and womanhood.” 

“ What do you think about dancing, Mr. Palmer? ” asked Aunt 
Carrie. 

“I have no opinion based on personal experience,” he replied, 
“for I never danced; I am wholly indebted for my opinion, 
such as it is, to observation and the testimony and experience 
of others in whom I have confidence. 

“As to the moral effects—after a long and careful observa¬ 
tion—I think I can say truthfully, those who become infatuated 
to any degree with dancing, to that degree they will not yield 
their minds to sound thinking, nor their hearts to spiritual 
light and truth, so long as their love for such amusement con¬ 
tinues. 

“I may safely say farther, when people—young or old—who 
have become accustomed to thoughtful reflection and pious 
living, engage in it—even in a domestically social way, or to 
develop the graces of a genteel bearing—a vitiating effect is 
produced upon their character and conduct.” 

“I know very well,” said Aunt Carrie, “as long as I took de¬ 
light in such things I had no desirejto be a Christian; when my 


[ 40 ] 


A Social Party Reviewed 


children died, I felt I must find comfort in the Lord alone or die 
of grief. I asked God for grace and consolation; in answer to 
my prayer both were given; since then it has seemed a perverted 
use of time and energy to engage in such vain amusements.” 

“I expected to hear as much from you,” said Mr. Palmer 
“As to the physical effects of dancing—upon young ladies 
especially—I wish to speak. 

“I need not mention that which you, as mothers so well 
know, would be the effects of late hours, late suppers, warm or 
overheated rooms, light dressing, cold drafts, and exposure going 
to and from the places of gathering. 

“But there is another item of awful and vital significance, 
■which has been forced upon my attention and ought to be 
taken into consideration in studying the physical effects of 
dancing. I do not know, however,” he said, hesitating, 
“whether I better mention it or not.” 

“Do you think,” asked Mrs. Seely, “that in a private house 
where invited guests are assembled—where a father dances 
with his wife or daughter, or a brother dances with his sister 
or mother, that any immoral result or tendency will spring 
from it?” 

“Do they do it, Mrs. Seely?” he asked, with much animation. 
“Suppose a law was passed and rigidly enforced, making it a 
criminal offense for any man to dance with other than his wife, 
mother, sister or daughter, how long—do you suppose—would 
the dance hold its sway and fascinating power over the virtuous 
and refined, saying nothing of the ignorant and vicious?” 

All remained quietly thinking for a moment; Mr. Palmer 
broke the silence by saying, “I trust, ladies, I shall be pardoned 
for any seeming lack of propriety if I illustrate what I felt 
bound to say a few moments ago—but hesitated to express— 
by giving the experience of a man who moved in the highest 
circles of refined society, himself a man of culture, blessed with 
a lovely wife and a family of sons and daughters devoted to 
each other, all of whom w T ere members of my congregation. 
During a revival service I was conducting he became deeply 
exercised; very soon his sons showed signs of deep contrition. 


[ 41 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


They were all blessed with renewed hearts and the entire family 
entered the fellowship of the church. They had been special 
devotees of dancing and other social pastimes. 

“The father called at my study shortly after uniting with 
the church. The subject of dancing being mentioned, he said 
he had called especially to speak to me about it, that I might 
use his experience as an instruction and warning to others. 

“He informed me that, in early life, he had been a dancing 
master, having the sons and daughters of the first families in 
different cities under his instruction. His wife, who had been 
his pupil—a paragon of grace and gentility—he said he had not 
danced with but twice since they were married. When his 
daughters were grown he found not pleasure enough in dancing 
with them to direct their education along that line. His sons 
became proficient, but they seemed to take no pleasure, rather 
shrank from dancing with their sisters or mother nor did this 
lack of interest, which could not be disguised, awaken any 
regrets or protests in the minds of his wife and daughters. 

“ ‘Of late,’ he said, with expressions of deep emotion, ‘a 
new light has streamed in upon my inner past life, also upon 
that of my wife; in the exchange of confidences, growing out of 
our illuminated selves and understandings of each other, we 
find no pages in all our history so dark and vile as those contain¬ 
ing the records of our mental musings and passionate burnings, 
awakened and fired by the liberty of bodily contact, admissible 
nowhere unchallenged and resented save in the social dance. 
As we feared, and had every reason to expect, the experiences of 
our sons and daughters—as we have learned from them—has not 
been unlike our own. Owing to the heat and excitement of the 
exercise, the liberty of bodily contact—perhaps in some 
forms of social dancing more than in others—the effects of ex¬ 
hilarating beverages and stimulating food, they have confessed, 
with tears and shame, that—even in their own home—they have 
been violently incited to unlawful desires and have been made 
the subjects of unchaste solicitations.’ 

“The man wept bitterly at the remembrance—as he said—of 
the dangers to which he and his wife, as the natural guard- 


[ 42 ] 


A Social Party Reviewed 


ians of their darling offspring, had exposed them by their worldly 
precepts and example.” 

Mr. Palmer then mentioned several more instances of simi¬ 
lar import, after which the ladies both thanked him for the 
candid way in which he had answered their questions. 

Hearing the voices of the children at play in the adjoining 
room, he inquired of Aunt Carrie if he might have the pleasure 
of meeting them. 

With a cordial greeting, after they had entered the room, Mr. 
Palmer invited Walter and Martin to attend church and Sun¬ 
day school with their cousins. After a brief prayer, he bade 
them all goodbye. 

So pleasant and instructive did Mrs. Seely feel his call to 
have been to her, she resolved to attend church the following 
Sabbath; the boys promised their cousins they would come with 
her and remain to Sunday school. 

As it was nearly sundown, Mrs. Seely and the boys hastened 
homeward, reaching the gate just as the sun was sinking out of 
sight, leaving a faint blush upon the fleecy clouds that was 
reflected on the snowy mantle that covered the earth. 


[ 43 ] 


CHAPTER VI. 


New Decisions. 

The Sunday morning after Thanksgiving day Walter and 
Martin were up bright and early preparing to attend church 
with their mother, after which they were to enter a Sunday 
school for the first time. 

Lockwood could be plainly seen from Mrs. Seely’s kitchen 
window. Church spires were in plain sight. The distance 
required half an hour to walk; the boys were filled with many 
questionings of mind as to how a Sunday school would be con¬ 
ducted; how they would feel with everyone about them strangers, 
except their cousins. When they were ready to start Walter 
saw through the window a large flock of prairie chickens flying 
over the fields. If anything had a special fascination for him 
it was a gun. Wild ducks and other game were plentiful; 
sometimes with Edward, at other times with Martin, he would 
wander all day over the prairies or along the streams hunting. 

Frequently, on Sunday morning, after the chores were done 
and all became quiet about the premises, as there were no books in 
the house that were interesting to boys of his age, he would ask 
his mother’s permission to go and shoot something for dinner or 
supper; sometimes his father accompanied him; not infrequently 
he went alone. 

At such times his mother’s words of caution would ring in 
his ears; she had often said she felt afraid to have him out hunt¬ 
ing on Sunday; it was a sacred day. Quoting the old adage, 
“better the day, better the deed,” which he had often heard 
older people quote under similar circumstances—promising to 
be very careful—he would spend the day wandering through 
the fields; occasionally the report of his gun could be heard 
ringing out on the Sabbath stillness. Somehow a strange feeling 
of sadness and fear would come over him, which he could not 


[ 44 ] 








































New Decisions 


shake off, save for a few moments at a time, when a rabbit 
would bound up before him, or a flock of birds would invite a 
salute from his gun, leaving one or more of their number be¬ 
hind. When loading his gun he carefully held the muzzle 
away from him, so no harm could befall him from an accidental 
discharge; on week days he felt no fear nor used any special 
precautions to prevent accident. As he watched the flock of 
prairie chickens that Sunday morning they began lighting on 
the trees in the orchard. 

Hastily getting his gun, he hurried toward them, just as his 
father drove the “democrat” up to the front gate and called 
those who were going to church to come and get in, as he had 
decided to go with them. Seeing Walter creeping along the 
fence toward the orchard, he called him so loudly to come back 
—or they would have to leave him at home—that the birds took 
flight before he got in range of them. 

Mr. Seely said, impatiently, “I will not go to church if I 
have to go in late.” 

At the services they were very much pleased with Mr. Palmer’s 
sermon; at the close he met them in the aisle and greeted them 
cordially. 

Mr. Seely and his wife returned home leaving the boys in 
Sunday school. They were placed with several town boys in a 
class taught by Mr. Cox, an aged gentleman. Some of the boys 
eyed Walter and Martin from head to foot, then whispered to 
each other behind their books and laughed. No doubt they 
were making sport of the plain garments and awkward manners 
of the strange boys from the country. So delighted, however, 
were Walter and Martin with the singing and the bright array 
of scholars in the school, they paid little heed to what the rest 
of the class were doing. It reminded them of exhibition day 
at their country school. They pleased their teacher by reciting 
the verses of the lesson in a ready and correct manner, their 
cousins having told them on Thanksgiving day where the lesson 
could be found. They each received cards and papers. Fre¬ 
quently on the w T ay home they stopped to examine them and read 
the stories. 


[ 45 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


Monday morning Rosamond and Edward again entered 
school with the younger boys in the white school house, plainly 
in view across the prairie. Several young people were present 
for the first time. The little school house—with its large, 
wooden seats and desks, marked and cut with as varied designs 
as the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian monument—was filled with 
scholars. 

Mr. Kennedy’s time was wholly occupied hearing recitations 
and aiding one and another of the older scholars in solving dif¬ 
ficult problems, or in pronouncing hard words for smaller chil¬ 
dren, who would come to him at his desk; or, rising in their 
seats, would each snap their thumb and finger together with a 
sound like the report of a popgun, to draw his attention. 

All the pupils made rapid improvement. Some of the young 
men were attending school for the last time, expecting to begin 
teaching, to work on a farm, or learn a trade. These young men 
were many of them Mr. Kennedy’s equal in size and strength. 
No test of strength, however, occurred to mar the harmony 
between teacher and school, until near the close of the term. A 
man grown boy of inferior scholarship—who made himself 
quite obnoxious to smaller scholars, by throwing their caps 
into ponds of water, keeping their balls, hiding their dinner 
pails, and similar acts which he was too cowardly to perpetrate 
on larger boys—defied Mr. Kennedy’s discipline, giving as a 
reason his father’s advice to “do as he pleased about obeying 
the teacher.” The conflict was short, but terrific. Amid the 
shuffling of feet, the crashing of benches, the cries and screams 
of frightened girls and small boys, mingled with the laughter of 
the larger ones, the refractory scholar learned who was master; 
with smarting palms and corrugated back, he became from that 
hour “a sadder, but a wiser pupil,” although reinforced the fol¬ 
lowing morning by his father’s threatening presence in the 
school room, when the irate sire exposed the back of his son— 
which was striped as a zebra. Mr. Kennedy calmly proceeded 
with his duties; peace soon reigned and continued to the close 
of school. 

The following winter Edward went to Chicago to live with an 


[ 46 ] 


New Decisions 


uncle’s family; lie entered the city schools with his cousins; 
there new views of life, strange, indeed, to a boy from 1 the 
country, came to him; his sturdy strength and clean habits 
prepared him to utilize the best and reject the evil he saw. b ' 1,1 

Rosamond remained at home, reciting to Mr. Kennedy nights 
and mornings, in a few advanced studies she had not com¬ 
pleted the winter before. Her teacher became very deeply 
interested in her and her studies; many beautiful gifts were the 
tokens of his friendship. 

Now grown to womanhood, developed in all the rural graces 
becoming her age, she still retained the cheerful spirit, the well 
rounded form and face, and the rosy cheeks, that suggested her 
name in childhood. 

Mr. Kennedy became her escort to church on Sunday eve¬ 
nings, to lectures and concerts during the week in Lockwood or 
to a spelling match or singing school in a neighboring school 
house. 

Clarence Farnsworth, after a year’s absence—clerking at a 
tavern in a southern city—returned to Lockwood and called at 
Mr. Seely’s. 

Rosamond’s correspondence with him had been the occasion 
of frequent conversations with her mother, who often expressed 
a fear that his associations would prove injurious to him. 
Mrs. Seely referred to Aunt Carrie’s experience and the causes 
that led to her husband’s intemperate habits. 

Such conversations would usually result in Rosamond’s 
yielding to a passionate fit of weeping, whereupon her mother 
would drop the subject or speak words of comfort to her daugh¬ 
ter, in her heart hoping for the best. 

Mr. Seely always treated Clarence with respect, seldom men¬ 
tioning his name, however, unless to answer some question 
now and then which Mrs. Seely asked concerning him. 

With the younger boys he was a prime favorite, always re¬ 
membering—as he did—to bring them nuts or candy; occa¬ 
sionally presenting them with pieces of money. 

This first visit from the South occurred on a bright Sabbath 
morning hitching the ponies, he drove from Lockwood, he 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


passed up the narrow walk between the long beds filled with 
flowers in full bloom. On the front porch sat Mr. Seely read¬ 
ing. Greeting Clarence cordially he invited him in where 
Mrs. Seely and Rosamond were sitting. After speaking to them, 
as he was about to take a seat, he observed the boys at play 
in the back yard; stepping to the open window he called them, 
at the same time taking from his pocket a package which he 
gave them. 

After a short time spent with the family he and Rosamond 
went to the parlor, closing the door after them. 

In the dining room Mrs. Seely and her husband engaged in 
an earnest conversation. 

“I see very plainly now, and have for some time,” said Mrs. 
Seely, “that I made a great mistake when I gave my consent to 
Rosamond’s attending parties in Lockwood. She was thrown 
into a new class of society, at an age without maturity of judg¬ 
ment, that could read human character or discern real worth; 
she was carried away with show and the attentions paid her; 
before we knew it her chief thought and affections were centered 
on such things and Clarence had completely won her heart.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Seely, “I do not object to young people 
having a pleasant time, but I do object to their forming 
habits they cannot control, which cause expense and sorrow 
to those connected with them. Look at what Sister Carrie 
has suffered through Joel’s conduct. I do all I can afford for 
her, but it is not half I wish to do or that she really needs. 

“After father died, as I was the oldest son—although under 
age—I was left in charge of mother and the children. I was not 
only willing but glad Carrie was to marry—although rather 
young; it would lighten my care; I could do better by the rest. 
I knew Joel frequented the tavern and sometimes went on a 
‘spree;’ I did not sense its meaning as I have since; now I see 
no prospect that he will ever do any better; he might as well be 
in California as here, where, if he does not help her, he will not 
hang around and annoy her. 

“The only objection in the world I have to Clarence is just 
the things in him that ruined Joel. I am afraid, yes, certain. 


[ 48 ] 


New Decisions 


that Rosamond—if she marries him—will experience very 
much what Carrie has suffered.” 

‘‘But you know,” said Mrs. Seely, “ Clarence has prom¬ 
ised Rosamond he will never again indulge in strong drink in 
any form.” 

“Joel made the same promise to Carrie,” said Mr. Seely; 
“how soon he broke it; I tell you, Sarah, the more I think of 
Rosamond—our only daughter—ever being placed as her Aunt 
Carrie is, it seems more than I can endure; now is the time to 
prevent it. She had better feel sad now, letting time and other 
influences heal her wounded feelings, than suffer a wound that 
cannot be healed.” 

Mr. Seely, although ordinarily very calm, was now most 
deeply agitated—not with anger, for he seldom—if ever— 
yielded to passion; a deep foreboding rested upon his mind; he 
felt unable to dispel it; rising to his feet he paced back and forth 
across the room with downcast eyes. 

“Have you talked with Clarence about the matter?” asked 
Mrs. Seely. 

“I have not,” he replied, “I have told you and Rosamond 
how I feel; I supposed you or she had told him. If he had a 
trade or suitable education for teaching school I should con¬ 
sider him more capable of supporting her, if he remains sober 
and industrious. 

“If Clarence had the ‘make up’ of Mr. Kennedy I should have 
no misgivings. He is not only temperate, moral and indus¬ 
trious, he has a trade. He earned considerable money making 
flour barrels in the shop down by the gate—working nights, 
mornings and Saturdays.” 

Just then the parlor door opened and Clarence, holding his 
hat and a package of letters in his left hand, came out; bowing 
to Mrs. Seely and her husband, bidding them good morning, he 
stepped out of the front door and passed slowly down the walk. 

With a flood of tears Rosamond turned and entered the parlor 
again. Mrs. Seely, knowing full well the deep sorrow and dis¬ 
appointment that were crushing her daughter’s heart, went to 
assure her it would all turn out for the best. 


[ 40 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


basket squares, besides tying numerous comforts—stitched 
in this and that reminiscence of their girlhood and wedding 
days; they rallied Rosamond and any of her young lady friends 
who chanced to be present—about their approaching change in 
life’s relationship—who, while protesting innocence of such in¬ 
tentions, were each looking forward to the event, as to a sunlit 
day, without a cloud to cross the sky. 

Carefully the feathery robe plucked from the downy breasts 
of the large flocks of geese and ducks that hovered all summer 
around the pond in the rear of the barn, was saved to provide 
beds on which wearv limbs and tired brains could rest at the 

t/ 

close of coming days of toil and care. 

An extra quantity of fruit, pickles and preserves was prepared 
and stored away to be transported to the new home. It was 
no small surprise when a large basket of delicious peaches w r ere 
received from the sunny South, the label bearing the writing of 
a familiar hand, addressed to Mrs. Seely. 

Rosamond and her mother each seemed to live two lives 
through all the busy summer months. In their thoughts and 
conversation each was living in the old and in the new home at 
the same time. 

No wonder Mrs. Seely often sighed in the moments of silence 
as she thought of the coming days when she would sit there 
alone, or pass from room to room, with her musings answered 
back only by the echoes of her own footsteps. No wonder 
Rosamond would raise her eyes quickly, half alarmed lest her 
mother was working too hard—for into her young heart was 
entering naught that savored of loneliness or sorrow. 

It is not so with mothers, when sons go out from under the 
parental roof, nor is it a ways so when a daughter—from a 
number—is taken from the fireside; it is when an only daughter— 
the companion of her mother, the idol of her father, the delight 
of her brothers—goes away, the brightest flower seems to have 
been plucked and borne from the home garden. 

Edward, having formed many new and pleasant acquaint¬ 
ances, had not felt so keenly the loss of his sister’s company 
since she began attending various gatherings with Mr. Kennedy 


[ 52 ] 



Separations 


or Clarence Farnsworth; he did not therefore offer any serious 
protests—other than playful banterings—against his sister 
leaving home. 

The smaller boys regarded the coming event, rather as a 
holiday occasion, when the house would be filled with company 
and an ample dinner or supper would be provided. As they 
had never seen a marriage service their curiosity was all alive. 

Mr. Seely had largely yielded up his fears that Clarence 
Farnsworth’s good resolutions would fail him in the hour of 
trial; he had taken a more hopeful view of his character and de¬ 
termination, since the day he talked with him at the gate; he 
made every arrangement that would seem to afford him and 
Rosamond a joyful wedding and a prosperous future. 

A wide circle of friends discussed the coming event and fre¬ 
quently commented on the principal participants. 

During the period of preparation Walter accompanied his 
father to Lockwood. While waiting in Mr. Golden’s store for 
his return from another part of town the merchant—not know¬ 
ing Walter—remarked to another gentleman, “Mr. Seely’s 
daughter is to be married next month.” 

“To whom?” was asked. 

“To Clarence Farnsworth,” was the reply of Mr. Golden. 

“What!” said the gentleman, “the young man who clerked 
for you two years ago? I should hardly think a man so radical 
as Mr. Seely is on the subject of temperance would allow it, for 
Clarence has been quite dissipated.” 

“Yes, he has,” Mr. Golden replied, “and for a long time Mr. 
Seely positively refused to give his consent, but the influence of 
his daughter, who is very handsome, and as sensible as she is 
handsome, worked such a change in Clarence, I guess he thought 
her influence over him would fully prevent his falling into dissi¬ 
pated habits again.” 

“I sincerely hope,” said the gentleman, “Mr. Seely will not 
be disappointed, for his own sake as well as for the girl’s; he is 
as fine a citizen as we have in the county and well deserves the 
public honors that have been conferred upon him; while I 
think he is too particular in refusing his harvest hands their 


[ 53 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


‘bitters,’ I presume he has good reasons for it. Indeed,^Mr. 
Golden, I sometimes wonder where matters will end if we can¬ 
not control the drinking habits of our young men. How many, 
over fourteen years of age, who live here, and attend Sunday 
school and the public schools, but have been in the habit of 
going to the tavern? Even young boys are treated to sling and 
whiskey punch; I have been trying to prevent my boys going, 
but after all the advice I have given them, I have found them 
there evenings when I dropped in to chat with Mr. Gray.” 

“Yes,” responded Mr. Golden, “it is a serious problem; some¬ 
thing must be done to put a stop-” 

Just then Mr. Seely drove up and stopped before the door; he 
motioned to Walter, who gathered up some parcels and went 
out without hearing the conversation further; yet what had 
been said was a new seed thought in his boyish mind. 

Despite the somber clouds, the rain and muddy thorough¬ 
fares, all the invited guests came on the appointed day to the 
wedding. The cheerful company seemed to be in lively con¬ 
trast to the gloomy state of nature without. 

After the ceremony and a sumptuous feast, the guests took 
their departure. Many fond and lingering farewells were 
spoken to Rosamond by her school girl friends and former 
associates, with whom she had been a favorite, and from whom 
many tokens of friendship and affection had been received. 

After a few days, spent largely in receiving calls and making 
farewell visits, Rosamond and her husband went to their south¬ 
ern home. The vacancy their absence caused, each strove to 
fill as best they could. 

In this they were greatly aided by Aunt Carrie and her 
daughters, who remained a few days to assist Mrs. Seely in her 
sewing and housework. 

While engaged in the former occupation, Mrs. Seely fre¬ 
quently took occasion to ask her sister-in-law many questions 
bearing upon the Bible and religious experience, for she be¬ 
lieved her to possess a thorough knowledge of both. 

“I have been thinking upon these subjects a great deal,” Mrs. 
Seely remarked one day while they were alone—as the children 



Separations 

were at school, and Mr. Seely and Edward had gone to the tim¬ 
ber for wood. 

“The subjects are very important,” said Aunt Carrie. “You 
remember Mr. Palmer said in his sermon last Sunday, ‘ who¬ 
soever will , may know for himself, and should seek without 
delay.’ ” 

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Seely, “he also said, ‘mothers especially, 
should be Christians; I have thought possibly I have not done 
my whole duty by Rosamond and Edward; while they have 
been very good children, they have not taken very much in¬ 
terest in church or Sunday school for some time past. They 
spend their time reading books they borrow, many of which I 
do not think are of special benefit to them.” 

“Do Walter and Martin enjoy attending Sunday school?” 
asked Aunt Carrie. 

“Yes, very much,” Mrs. Seely replied, “they do not wish to 
stay away for snow or rain. They each received a handsome 
Bible for reciting their Bible verses the very best of any in their 
class. I have noticed a great change in Walter. He has been 
very fond of hunting on Sunday; I always felt worried when he 
was gone, and have often told him how wrong it is; since he has 
attended Sunday school he has read most of the Bible and does 
not offer to hunt on Sunday. 

“Recently he told me a dream he had last summer. He 
asked me first if I believed dreams are true. I told him I 
thought they were sometimes. He then told me that in his. 
dream he seemed to be out in the yard playing; suddenly he 
began to rise from the ground; he went up until he was among 
the clouds and could not see the earth nor the sun. All around 
him it was misty but very light. Through the mist a man 
came toward him until he could see his face and form dis¬ 
tinctly; his hair, which was golden brown, was parted back from 
the center of his forehead and hung in waves down to his shoul¬ 
ders; he had on a light garment reaching from his shoulders to 
his feet; he stood a few yards away with his hands clasped before 
him. 

“Walter said he looked like the pictures of Jesus in the Sun- 


[ 55 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


day school papers; he thought it must be the Saviour who stood 
before him; instead of being afraid, he was glad to see him, he 
looked so kind. Just then a large pulpit or desk shaped struc¬ 
ture distinctly appeared, having a larger book on it than he 
had ever seen; this, Jesus took and, laying it upon his left arm, 
he opened it and turned over several pages, until he came to a 
place where two pages were written nearly full of very black 
lines. Walter saw his own name at the top. 

“He thought at once the lines were the record of his sins; he 
was astonished there were so many of them. Many he had 
forgotten, but plainly remembered them then. 

“He said as he looked at the pages, then at Jesus, who looked 
at him so kindly, he felt very sorry he had said and done so 
many wicked things. The Saviour seemed to know how he 
felt, for immediately he smiled and raised his right hand, then 
placed it upon his name; as he did so, an expression of pain 
passed over his face; a drop of blood oozed out of each pore in 
his hand; he passed his hand over Walter’s name and each dark 
line; as soon as the blood touched the black letters they disap¬ 
peared and the pages became white as snow and Walter saw 
his name alone, written at the top of the spotless pages, in letters 
of gold. He told me I awakened him just then by calling him 
to breakfast. The vision or dream evidently made a deep im¬ 
pression on his mind, and led to a marked improvement in his 
conduct. 


[ 56 ] 


CHAPTER VIII. 


More Decisions. 

“It certainly was a very remarkable dream,” said Aunt 
Carrie, as she wiped the tears from her eyes; the recital of the 
dream had moved her deeply. 

“Shortly after the baptism of your oldest daughter,” contin¬ 
ued Mrs. Seely, “Walter followed me upstairs one night; I was 
doing some work and he seemed anxious to ask me some ques¬ 
tion; at last he said he wished to be baptized and unite with the 
church, as his cousin had done. I told him—as he is only twelve 
years old—I feared he was too young to understand what it 
means. He said nothing more about it then, nor has he since; and 
I have noticed he has lost much of his interest in the Sunday 
school of late, nor does he seem patient and obedient toward 
Mr. Seely and me, nor as kind to his brothers; the teacher has 
informed me he is not as good a boy in school as formerly. He 
has been very much attached to Miss Alden, his teacher, who 
told the scholars they should each try and aim high in life and 
avoid everything that would hinder their success. Walter told 
me her words made him feel ashamed of his mischief in school.” 

“Do you think I did right in thus speaking to him, Aunt 
Carrie?” 

“To be candid with you, Sarah, I do not,” was the frank 
reply. “I fear Walter thought you did not wish him to be a 
Christian. It discouraged him so he gave up trying. Satan 
will overcome anyone who does not resist, asking the Lord 
for help. Do you remember the quotation in the minister’s 
sermon last Sunday, 

“ ‘The pebble in the brooklet dropped 
Has turned the course of a mighty river. 

The dewdrop on the baby plant 
Has dwarfed the giant oak forever.’ ” 


[ 57 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


“One thing is certain,” said Mrs. Seely, “I do not wish to do 
anything wrong, nor stand in the way of my children. When 
Rosamond and Edward were quite small Mr. Seely frequently 
read the Bible to them and me. We thought quite seriously at one 
time we would unite with the church; we neglected our duty, 
and I do not know that we will ever get right again.” 

“Edward has given his name into the church in Lockwood,” 
said Aunt Carrie. 

“Has he?” said Mrs. Seely, greatly surprised; “I had not 
heard of it;” after a few moments pause she added feelingly, 
“I am very glad to know it. I try to pray for Rosamond now 
that she is away; somehow I do not seem to have any faith— 
at least I do not feel my prayers are heard.” 

Aunt Carrie told her she must not let her feelings govern her 
praying, but pray in faith through Christ whom God loves and 
who loves us—that is, she must offer her prayers to God, be¬ 
lieving Christ endorsed them, just as Mr. Seely, being rich, might 
put his name on a note with a poor man, then the man could go 
to the bank and draw all the money the note called for.” 

“I have sometimes felt,” said Mrs. Seely, “my heart is like 
the pages of the book Walter saw in his dream.” 

“That was just the way I used to feel,” said Aunt Carrie. 
“When you told about his seeing the Saviour put his bleeding 
hand upon the book, making the dark lined pages white, I 
thought of the time when I felt so sad after my children died. 
I tried to pray, but my heart seemed to be so cold and dark; my 
past life came up before me. I asked God to forgive the past; 
I promised to serve Him. Suddenly my sadness left me; I was 
filled with light and love and joy; I wished to tell everyone 
how to be happy; the way seemed so plain and easy.” 

“That is what has been so hard for me to make up my mind 
to do —to tell others ,” said Mrs. Seely. “You know, my hus¬ 
band has often said, within the past few years, he does not be¬ 
lieve in sudden conversions; that there is no change of heart 
only what we make in our own minds; I think I would find it 
very hard to tell him my feelings.” 

“Did not the Saviour say, ‘he that confesseth me before men, 


[ 58 ] 


More Decisions 


him will I also confess before my Father and the Holy Angels?’ ” 
asked Aunt Carrie. 

“When you are willing to let your light shine anywhere, 
Sarah, you will feel such a peace and joy that you will be glad 
to bear the cross; then the Lord will seem very near you when 
you pray.” 

“I have often wondered why everyone cannot be good,” said 
Mrs. Seely; “I know I wish to be; somehow, something keeps 
me from being what I ought to be.” 

“I often wondered myself,” said Aunt Carrie, “until a few 
weeks ago, when Mr. Palmer preached a sermon explaining the 
source and manner of temptations. He said, ‘when God 
created man, he made him with a body, soul and spirit.’ ” 

“I always supposed the soul and spirit were the same thing,” 
said Mrs. Seely. 

“So did I,” Aunt Carrie replied, “but he explained that ‘the 
soul consists of our intellect, our heart or affections—sometimes 
termed sensibilities—and our will. Our spirit is what makes us 
bear God’s likeness or image; it is with our spirit we worship 
Him. The Holy Spirit comes and fills our spirit with divine 
love, joy, peace. Until Satan tempted our first parents they 
had no thought of doing aught but what pleased their Creator. 
They loved him; he talked or communed with them constantly 
and they were happy. ’ ” 

“Who is Satan and where did he come from, Carrie? Did 
Mr. Palmer explain that?” asked Mrs. Seely. 

“Yes,” was the reply; “Mr. Palmer said Satan and his angels 
were once angels in heaven, but they kept not their first estate 
or rebelled against God and were cast out. After God made 
man so pure and happy, Satan found Adam and Eve in the 
garden of Eden; because he hated God and everything God 
loved or that loved God, he strove to destroy man’s happiness 
by persuading Eve to eat of the forbidden fruit and she per¬ 
suaded Adam to do the same. 

“Listening to Satan, the desire to eat of the forbidden fruit 
became so strong, what God had said was doubted or forgotten. 
Eve believed Satan when he said she should not die if she ate; 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


thus Satan won her heart away from God, until, to please her¬ 
self, she disobeyed him and drew Adam’s heart away with her. 
When they considered what they had done they felt condemned 
and were afraid of God. They endeavored to do an impossible 
thing—hide from the presence of God.” 

“Do you suppose Satan tempts people that way now?” asked 
Mrs. Seely. “I wonder if that is why people who are not 
Christians are afraid to die?” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Carrie in reply to the first question; “Mr. 
Palmer stated that every child born into the world is first as 
innocent of actual guilt as Adam and Eve were before they 
were tempted; if they die before yielding to temptation they 
will enter heaven; the Bible says, ‘of such is the kingdom of 
heaven.’ When I read that passage, Sarah, I feel reconciled 
to the death of my little children; they were innocent and are 
safe forever. In his sermon Mr. Palmer said ‘Satan begins to 
influence very little children, causing them to wish to please 
themselves and have their own way; when they are allowed to 
do it they become disobedient and self-willed; if they are not 
prevented they will grow up disregarding the wishes of parents 
and teachers and will break the laws of the land and the com¬ 
mandments of God.’ 

“He said, ‘we should teach our children very early in life 
that there are evil spirits that put naughty thoughts into their 
minds, causing them to say and do wrong things; we should 
teach them to ask God to send His good Spirit to keep Satan 
out of their hearts. All people need God’s help to keep 
them from doing wrong, for Satan is always near to tempt 
us.’ 

“He used an illustration that made the subject very plain; 
he said, ‘our will is like a door on each side of our heart. On 
one side it opens toward the body. Satan comes to that door 
and tells us about the beautiful things we see—how they would 
gratify our bodily passions and appetites; he tells us about 
pleasures, honor and ease, until we forget any danger lurking 
in them or to which they might lead; we continue to think 
about and long for them—finally the will yields—the door 


\ 


[ 60 ] 


More Decisions 


opens—Satan enters our hearts, corrupts our affections and de¬ 
sires, until we engage in all manner of wrong doing.’ ” 

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Seely, “that is what the Bible means 
when it says, ‘led about by Satan at his will.’ ” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Carrie, “and Mr. Palmer said further, 
‘when we let the evil spirit into our heart we cease to love the 
Good Spirit and force him out on the other side and the door of 
the will is closed against him. Then we begin to be unhappy 
and fearful, for Satan fills our heart; he knows no happiness and 
leads no one to it, but farther and farther away from peace and 
joy. The Good Spirit waits without, ever ready to come in 
again and cast Satan out; if we call for him and open the door 
to our heart—which is our will—he will enter.’ ” 

’‘I was reading the other day,” said Mrs. Seely, “where the 
Saviour says, ‘behold, I stand at the door and knock, if any man 
hear my voice and open unto me, I will come in and sup with 
him and he with me.’ Do you suppose the reason people do 
not succeed in being good is owing to the presence of Satan in 
their hearts, deceiving them as to the real cause of their failure? 
If they would let the Saviour in—which I suppose means the 
same as letting the Good Spirit control us—he would banish 
Satan from our hearts and help us to be good?” 

“Most certainly that is the teaching of the Bible, and it has 
been my experience,” said Aunt Carrie. “The Saviour said, 
‘without me, ye can do nothing.’ How often people make good 
resolutions, then break them! Satan objects to no one making 
good resolutions as long as they do not invoke and admit the 
presence of the Good Spirit to help fulfill them. If people only 
realized the true cause of their wrong doing—which they do 
not, Satan even causing many to believe there is no Evil Spirit, 
only their own ignorance or weakness—or something inher¬ 
ited—they would be filled with alarm and sorrow on account of 
Satan’s presence and control over them. They would plead 
with the Good Spirit to enter, drive Satan out, and change 
their vile affections caused by Satan’s influence, then implant 
a true love that makes whatever is innocent and holy our de¬ 
light and comfort.” 


[ 61 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

Aunt Carrie smiled as she uttered this last sentence. It 
recalled her own experience and increased her satisfaction in 
pointing her friend to the path of life and peace. 

“I have often wondered how you could be so cheerful and 
patient in all your troubles, Carrie, said Mrs. Seely, “now I 
understand.” 

Thus a plain seamstress and a farmer’s wife, with but lim¬ 
ited education and knowledge of the world and of books, were 
comprehending and explaining the origin of sin in the human 
heart—the direct result of Satan’s influence on each person; 
by actual experience one had obtained through repentance and 
prayer and faith, deliverance from Satan’s power and was di¬ 
recting another in the way that was soon to lead her into the 
enjoyment of “like precious faith.” That which has been 
withheld from the wise and prudent, who have sought to explain 
the origin of sin by human wisdom and philosophy, was revealed 
unto babes in understanding. 

That evening Mr. Vinton, one of the ministers in Lockwood, 
was to preach in the school house near Mr. Seely’s home; he 
and his family were to attend the services, accompanied by 
Aunt Carrie and her daughters. 

Mr. Vinton frequently went into the country and held evening 
services in the school houses. The house was very full of people 
at this service. Mr. Vinton’s singing and his impressive ser¬ 
mon made a deep impression upon many—especially upon 
Mrs. Seely and Walter. The next week Aunt Carrie returned 
home, taking Mrs. Seely with her, leaving her oldest daughter 
to help her cousins and her uncle keep house a few days. 

Mr. Vinton was conducting nightly revival services in his 
church; Walter and several schoolmates, who heard him 
preach in the school house, walked over to Lockwood to attend 
the meetings. All the boys were charmed with the singing, and 
listened respectfully to the earnest prayers; at the same time, 
they were astonished at the disorderly conduct of several town 
boys who were crowded together near the door. 

After the sermon, Mr. Vinton invited those who wished to 
become Christians to come forward and kneel about the altar; 


[ 62 ] 



More Decisions 


many did so and continued during a season of singing and 
prayer. Before the meeting closed different persons—men 
and women—arose in their places and spoke of their experience 
and desires on religious lines. 

The voice of one woman especially arrested Walter's atten¬ 
tion; although she was standing across the church from him, 
it sounded like his mother’s voice. He listened while she 
said, “I have long felt a desire to be a true Christian, but I 
have kept my light ‘under a bushel;’ from this time forth I will 
endeavor to let it shine before the world.” 

Walter was deeply moved; he could scarcely restrain his tears 
when he knew it was indeed his mother. He recalled the night 
when he told her of his desire to be baptized, and she thought 
he was too young to understand its religious import; he remem¬ 
bered, also, how discouraged he became; an oath almost came 
to his lips as he left her and entered his room, thinking to him¬ 
self, “my mother does not wish me to be a Christian;” when 
he knelt to pray, as had been his wont for several months, a 
strange impression—almost a protesting voice—had come to 
him, saying, “how dare you pray so soon after having almost 
uttered an oath?” 

He remembered also how unhappy he became and soon fell 
back into his wicked ways. But now he was two years older and 
as his mother had become a Christian she could tell him all its 
meaning and show him the path of duty. 

After reaching home that night he stopped at the well; 
kneeling under the cherry tree near by, he tried to pray, but his 
heart seemed too dark and sad; suddenly he heard what sounded 
like approaching footsteps; hastily springing to his feet he 
entered the house. 

Taking a book from the library—which the trustees had 
recently purchased for the school district—he tried to read. 
He had become familiar with the lives of several celebrated men; 
especially had the lives of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay 
fired his mind with an ambition to be a lawyer; now he could 
not fix his mind upon his reading. Something seemed to be 
softly whispering to him, “are you willing to peach the Gospel, 


[ 63 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


if I will help you to be a Christian?” He did not enjoy the 
question, nor could he silence the Questioner. The following 
day, wth the question still in his thoughts, he went alone far 
into the field secretly carrying a Testament with him. Count¬ 
ing off a score of stakes in the fence and opening his Testament 
he selected a verse for a text; he tried to preach a sermon, 
imagining the stakes were people. After uttering a few sen¬ 
tences he could think of no more to say; thankful the stakes 
were not real people to laugh at his failure, grievously disap¬ 
pointed that he had not met with success in his attempt to 
preach, upon which he had decided to base his consent to become 
a minister if he became a Christian—he cast himself down, with 
his face upon the ground and wept bitterly. “I cannot 
preach,” he cried aloud, “therefore I cannot be a Christian.” 
Arising from the ground and wiping away his tears, he returned 
to the house with a sad and heavy heart. The following Sab¬ 
bath evening he went again to hear Mr. Vinton preach. When 
he invited all who wished to come and kneel for prayer, Walter 
hesitated, saying to himself “if I become a Christian I will be 
expected to preach and I cannot do it—I have tried.” Then 
came to him the thought Satan was tempting him; “but no,” 
he reasoned, “Satan would not want me to preach and win 
people from his influence; this impression of duty must be from 
the Lord, and it will be several years before I will be expected 
to preach; I can improve my time in preparing; I will do the 
Lord’s will now.” So saying, he went forward, although jeered 
at by many of the boys near him; reaching the place of praj^er 
he knelt with others and earnestly asked the Saviour for “a 
new heart.” Soon a peace came to him such as he enjoyed 
before asking his mother’s permission to accept baptism. 

Between the mother and son, consecrated to a common 
service, a new bond of love came into existence; not in their 
own alone but in each other’s joy they felt an untold happi¬ 
ness. While but little was said by either, that which was up¬ 
permost in their thoughts was expressed in ways well under¬ 
stood by each other, and enjoyed—but as yet not compre¬ 
hended—by other members of the family. Having united 


[ 64 ] 


More Decisions 


with Mr. Vinton’s church, his frequent visits in their home not 
only encouraged Mrs. Seely and Walter in their Christian life, 
but others of the household and neighborhood were charmed by 
his genial manners and drawn to his public ministry. 




[ 65 ] 


CHAPTER IX. 


Farm House Pleasures. 

To Walter the change in character and aim in life brought 
more kindness in word and act toward family and schoolmate 
friends, without detracting from his love of sport—harmless in 
itself—which had always characterized him, and which any boy 
may engage in and yet be a Christian. It is a mistaken notion 
that country life is one of dull monotony, void of pleasure. No 
finer fun is found—none less harmful than that enjoyed by 
child life on the farm. Who that has shared it can forget their 
childhood among the fowls and flocks; the pleasures of the 
field; sliding down the stacks; “Easter egg hiding,” and melon 
time; the “breaking of the colts” and “yoking up the calves;” 
ball games, kite flying and skating? The broad pond back of 
Mr. Seely’s barn was a veritable “inland sea,” upon which his 
boys made many a voyage in an Indian “dug out” Edward had 
procured from a hunter in exchange for a gun. After the thaws 
and spring rains, when the pond was full to its highest “water 
mark,” Walter and Martin, with a couple of visiting neighbor 
boys, were rowing across the smooth surface, while Rover was 
running along the shore, barking loudly in response to their 
calls. Eager to reach them, true to his spaniel nature, the dog 
plunged into the water and swam rapidly toward the canoe. 
Without a suspicion of danger, the boys laughed and loudly 
beckoned him on. Reaching the side of the boat, he raised his 
head from the water. Then he suddenly threw his forefeet over 
the side and tipped the boys headlong into the pond. Grasping 
the sides of the boat, they partly swam and floated to wading 
depth and reached the shore wetter and wiser lads; but Rover 
had no “standing invitation” to accompany them on their 
future voyages. 


[ 66 ] 



Farm House Pleasures 


When the frosty days of autumn came Mrs. Seely was careful 
that the boys were clad in comfort. Walter had the promise 
of a new pair of mittens, knit by his mother from yarn spun by 
her on the old family spinning wheel; hurrying home from 
school he found his mother busily engaged “thumbing off” the 
last one; pushing his hands into them, he proudly displayed 
them to his brothers as they entered the door. Edward, then a 
robust youth, proposed that Walter assist him in “breaking” 
one of the young steers—already familiar with the yoke—so 
they could ride him. Eager for the fun, Walter hastened to 
the crib to fill his arms with ears of corn with which to coax the 
intended “steed” into docility while Edward mounted. Reach¬ 
ing the barn yard the young ox, familiar with the boys, came 
quickly forward for an ear of corn. Proud of his new mittens 
and the comfort they afforded him, Walter extended an ear of 
corn to the animal just as Edw r ard sprang upon his back. With 
protruding tongue, he drew the ear of corn and Walter’s hand 
into his mouth; springing from under his rider, with a deep 
bellow, he ran away dragging Walter after him, who, screaming 
with fright and pain, drew his hand out of the steer’s mouth, 
leaving his mitten and the ear of corn to be chewed and swal¬ 
lowed together, while he, through blinding tears, looked on, in 
sorrowful indignation over the loss of his new mitten before it 
had hardly been shaped and warmed by his hand. Later, 
Walter and Martin decided to utilize the strength of this same 
young ox as a propelling power, independent of yoke or saddle. 
Drawing the rope of their hand sled through the loop they made 
by securely knotting the hair on his tail, then bringing the knot¬ 
ted end of the rope back and grasping it with his hand, Walter 
seated himself on the sled with Martin behind. Using a 
long cornstalk for a whip, he started the steer across the barn¬ 
yard. No doubt astonished at the new attachment to his own 
caudle appendage he turned his head to one side, then the 
other; each glance backward increased his fright; quickening 
his walk into a trot, he left the herd and stacks of straw and 
fodder and started across the wide pasture; the boys were in 
high glee, fancying themselves young esquimaux with sled and 


[ 67 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


reindeer, such as they had seen pictured in their books. 
Glancing ahead Walter saw in the line of their course a wide 
patch of grassy hummocks covered with ice and snow. To 
avoid a collision with these he let go his hold upon the knotted 
rope, expecting to see it slip through the loop on the animal’s 
tail as smoothly as an anchor chain glides through the hole in 
the side of a ship, drawn by the sinking anchor. But alas! the 
knot caught in the hair of the tail of the steer; with a sudden 
jerk he left Martin sitting in the snow; a little farther on the 
sled collided with a hummock, whirling Walter headlong from 
his seat and sending the sled, to the rope’s length, into the air 
and descending upon the animal’s back. With a bellowing 
bound the now thoroughly frightened runaway, unchecked by 
bridle or driver, started afresh at right angles to his former 
course, the boys in hot pursuit, to save, if possible, their cher¬ 
ished sled. Again and again the sled was flung into the air by 
contact with a hummock or trampled under hoofs until it was 
so completely demolished that not enough clung together to 
longer frighten the victim of a boyish prank; reaching the most 
distant fence corner he turned and gazed, in big-eyed terror, 
at his pursuers, meanwhile panting vigorously and using his 
long, rough tongue as a handkerchief to wipe the drops of per¬ 
spiration from his cold nose. 

In former days the rural sports of childhood were mostly 
those provided by conditions and things out of doors; the 
blasts of winter and the fragrant winds of summer made them 
strong of lungs and lithe of limb. Christmas and other anni¬ 
versary days were playful times, rather than occasions for the 
lavish bestowment of gifts. Christmas trees were all but un¬ 
known to Mr. Seely’s children. Santa Claus, however was a 
veritable “deity” to Walter and Martin; for had they not been 
convinced of his reality from the day their father posted upon 
the kitchen wall an immense picture of him and his sled full of 
toys, drawn by eight tiny reindeers, which had been sent as a 
premium with the New York Tribune? It puzzled their little 
heads to decide how so fat a person could come down so small a 
chimney and past the elbows, through smoke and fire, but they 


[ 68 ] 


Farm House Pleasures 


concluded anyone could do that who could drive a team of rein¬ 
deers up the side of the house and through the air if need be. 
Then, were not their stockings, hung up empty Christmas eve 
and found next morning full of popcorn and big red apples and 
sticks of striped candy, with now and then a toy? In their ig¬ 
norance and simple gifts they found bliss untold, until Walter— 
one Christmas morning, awakened by his father calling Edward 
to his early morning work—hastily dressed and descending to 
the sitting room found the real Santa Claus filling the stockings 
hanging to the mantle. He shouted in triumph over his dis¬ 
covery, only to feel sorely crestfallen when laughingly told 
“there would be no more stockings filled, now that the secret 
about Santa Claus was discovered.” 

If the boys found pleasure in their sport, their folly ofttimes 
brought its own punishment. In his apron wearing days in 
the red house Walter’s bent for mischief led him to ap¬ 
proach a hive of bees with a long, sharp pointed pole, which he 
thrust into the entrance, thinking himself safe from the bees 
and their stings at the distance of the pole’s length. Very 
soon, however, his loud screams brought his mother to the res¬ 
cue; not without many stings herself, she threw her skirts 
around him; rushing into the house and quickly closing doors 
and windows to keep out the infuriated pursuers, she bathed 
him freely in a strong solution of soda, which neutralized the 
acid poison of the stings; then, with a fine toothed comb, she 
literally combed the stingers from Walter’s head and hands, 
leaving no serious results. Ever after, while shy of the busy 
workers, he still retained a fondness for their gathered sweets. 

Stored in the pantry cellar way his mother kept her “cards” of 
honey, charging the boys not to take it without permission. 
Passing it one day in her absence, the temptation to break off a 
small projecting piece was more than Walter could resist. 
Hastily putting it in his mouth, he gave a cry of pain as he felt, 
upon the inside of his lip, the sharp sting of a bee, hidden in one 
of the cells. His mother’s expected return filled him with deep 
concern, for how could he hide the increasing size of his swollen 
lip—proof of his act of disobedience? The rumbling wheels 


[ 69 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


at the gate told of her arrival. With the milk pails upon his 
arms which John, the hired man, had asked him to bring to the 
barn, he met his mother in the path. At a glance she saw his 
swollen lip; with true motherly solicitude she inquired the 
cause. His evasive answer led to a closer examination and the 
discovery of the reason; but with a slight reproof she dismissed 
him, saying: 

“For this time your disobedience has brought its own pun¬ 
ishment, Walter!” 

The impression of the incident and its lesson never left his 
memory. 

What farmer’s child has not felt the ecstatic joy of looking 
upon a litter of young puppies or kittens—even though the 
girls felt a trembling fear lest their brothers harden their hearts 
and drown them? How delightful the labor of scattering food 
for the downy chicks, or watching the fluffy little ducks follow 
their mother, like animated bubbles, floating on the water! 
The flock of goslings, while fully as attractive, were more se¬ 
cure from childish handling, as the sturdy gander or the mother 
goose, with deep-toned “honk, honk,” or protruding neck, 
hissed their warnings. 

Here again Walter became the victim of misjudged security 
when he caught a gosling near the barn that had become sepa¬ 
rated from the rest. Holding it close to his face to soothe its 
cries and feel its soft down upon his cheek, his first warning was 
a swish of wings and the mother goose was upon his stooping 
back; grasping a mouthful of hair in her saw-edged bill with 
angry cries she belabored him furiously on head and shoulders 
with her wings; in vain he dropped his captive; in vain he 
screamed and tried to escape by running. His mad rider 
held her place, lashing him with unabated fury as he ran about 
the yard, until a lucky tumble cast him headlong on the ground 
and his tormentor was dislodged; away she ran with noisy calls, 
gathering together her scattering brood. 

Not to the young alone, with care-free, buoyant spirits, but 
likewise to 

“Men, who work from sun to sun,” 


[ 70 ] 


Farm, House Pleasures 


and 

“Women, whose work is never done,” 
in the farm home or field, comes pleasure and respite from toil— 
glad hours of recreation, homely pastimes—when the burden is 
laid aside and well earned freedom and rest from labor are 
enjoyed. 

Not always sportive pleasure alone was the motive for gath¬ 
erings in the farm house parlors or dining rooms! 

Some sick mother, with unfinished sewing and winter near, 
explained the clicking knitting needles and the garments being 
made or the quiltings in the hands of the assembled bands of 
sympathizing women—mothers themselves—doubly glad and 
blessed themselves by blessing others. 

Again, a farmer, victim of an accident, anchored to his bed 
with a broken limb, looking through the window of his sick 
room, across his fields of ripening grain or unhusked corn, sadly 
sighs as he thinks of the loss he will sustain, because unable to 
reap the fruit of his seed sowing. 

A new sense of gratitude for human kindness comes to him, 
as he looks again and listens to the shouts of cheerful harvest¬ 
ers—as a procession stops before his door—neighbors who have 
come to harvest his grain or husk his corn. 

Who can measure the benefits to old and young of that 
unique rural function—the “farmer’s picnic?” Long antici¬ 
pated and prepared for; richly enjoyed in neighborly greetings 
and social feastings; long remembered as a sunburst of pleasure 
through a cloud of toil and care. 

More of such recreations will avert the increasing insanity 
among farmer’s wives and hold the farmer’s sons and daughters 
to the farm. 

Recreation that is not rest from labor—a preparation for 
new work waiting to be performed—is a waste of time and en¬ 
ergy. The pleasures of the farm home are therefore of that 
character—sandwiched as they are between days of toil—they 
may be considered as working capital—the oiling of the ma¬ 
chinery of life, without which the machine itself would ere long 
break down. 


[ 71 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


Thus, amid the pleasures of the farm, childhood passes into 
youth—youth in turn ripening into maturity and old age. 

The frequent letters from Rosamond were filled with cheer¬ 
ing words of happiness; mention of new acquaintances and 
friendships; her husband’s kindness and attentions, all of 
which prevented homesickness and removed the feelings of 
strangeness in her new surroundings. 

Even among the new found friends, however, her abode was 
not to be for long in the sunny South. His new business near 
Chicago called Clarence Farnsworth northward, there to find a 
home for Rosamond within a day’s journey of the scenes of her 
childhood. 


[ 72 ] 


CHAPTER X. 


War. 

Mr. Seely came from Lockwood one evening just after a 
national election. Having eaten his supper, he took up the 
newspaper and began to read aloud to Mrs. Seely and the boys. 
After reading the column of “local items” his eyes rested upon 
the word “SECESSION,” printed in large letters at the head 
of a column. 

As he read it aloud, Walter asked what the word meant. 
His father was about to explain the meaning, when he remem¬ 
bered a dictionary had been purchased with the new school 
library. He knew it would do the boys good to look up the 
word. He told Edward to bring the dictionary from the book¬ 
case. Opening it upon the table he readily found the word 
“secede” and read: “to withdraw from fellowship.” He then 
found and read the word “secession” and the definition: “the 
act of seceding.” 

“But who are going to secede?” asked Edward. 

“The southern states where slaves are bought and sold,” 
his father replied. 

“Are the slave owners going to withdraw from the union 
and take their slaves with them?” asked Walter. 

“Yes,” his father replied; “they want all the states in which 
slaves are owned to unite and form a separate government and 
elect a president of their own.” 

“What is the reason they do not like Mr. Lincoln?” asked 
Edward. 

“Because,” said Mr. Seely, “they think he wishes to free the 
slaves; they do not desire to have slavery put down. They 
paid a large amount of money for them and they work without 


[ 73 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


pay, other than necessary food and clothing; by that means 
slave owners have become very rich.” 

“Does Mr. Lincoln think slavery is right?” asked Mrs. Seely. 

“He does not,” her husband answered. “He has been heard 
to say in a public speech, ‘if slavery is not wrong, nothing is 
wrong;’ he is, however, in favor of doing away with it in some 
way by which the owners can get their money back which they 
have invested in slaves. Most of those who hold them do not 
wish anything done that will interfere with slavery; they want 
the privilege of extending it into other states and territories. 
Mr. Lincoln is opposed to that and so are those who voted for 
him and a great many who did not.” 

“I am afraid it will make trouble in this country,” said Mrs. 
Seely. 

“If the slave states do secede and bring on war many lives 
will be lost and much property be destroyed,” remarked Ed¬ 
ward thoughtfully; “but,” he added, “I think I would like to 
be a soldier. I learned to drill last summer in the torchlight 
companies.” 

“Well, my son,” his mother said with a sigh, “I hope you will 
not be required to be a soldier. It seems dreadful just to think 
of men going to war and killing each other.” 

Every day that followed the papers contained something 
more about “secession.” Edward overheard some men telling 
his father—when they were in Lockwood with a load of wheat— 
“the war has commenced in the South; a company of soldiers 
will be formed at once in Lockwood and another in Juliet.” 
They asked Mr. Seely if Edward could enlist. He did not hear 
what his father said in reply to their question about him; when 
he reached home he told his mother what the men had said and 
asked if she was willing he should become a soldier. 

In reply, she said, “We will wait and see; perhaps you will 
not be needed, Edward.” 

When she returned from another room, where she had gone 
after their conversation, Edward observed her eyes were red 
from weeping. 

The next day, after they came from the field and were pre- 


[ 74 ] 


War 


paring for dinner, a farmer, coming from town, was reading a 
newspaper as his horses walked slowly along the dusty road. 

“ What are the news, neighbor?” asked Mr. Seely, loud enough 
to arouse the man’s attention. 

Looking up from his paper and stopping his horses he replied: 
“Just had a big battle; the northern soldiers have been de¬ 
feated; the President has called for several thousand more sol¬ 
diers; I think I shall go for one; there is to be a public meeting 
in Lockwood tonight. I am going and you and Edward better 
go over also. 

When seated at the dinner table Mr. Seely and his wife said 
but little; the boys, however, especially Walter and Martin, 
were very much excited. Walter wondered if they would 
accept him as a drummer boy. 

After Edward had returned to his work and the younger 
boys had gone to the garden to weed onions, Mrs. Seely asked 
her husband if Edward had said anything to him about enlisting. 

“Not yet,” he answered, “but I expect if he goes with me 
tonight and sees that other young men are enlisting he will 
want to do the same. I wish to do my duty to my country, 
but it does seen as if I could not spare him just now; however, 
he will soon be of age; then if the war continues he will go any¬ 
how; I would rather have him go with my full consent, feeling I 
am ready to do anything I can to save the Union. If I was a 
few years younger I would go myself. 

“I have decided—as John does not wish to go, but will re¬ 
main and work for me—if Edward wishes to enlist, I will not 
oppose him, if you are willing.” 

“I am willing to do my duty,” said Mrs. Seely, very much 
agitated; “but I feel if he goes to the war I shall never see him 
again.” 

Lockwood was all astir that night; Edward and his father 
heard the sound of martial music as they drew near the 
town. 

A gentleman in uniform spoke at the public meeting in the 
hall, urging all who loved their country to “rally round the 
flag.” The people cheered loud and long, whereupon several 


[ 75 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


young men went forward and signed their names as volunteers; 
Edward turned to his father and asked his consent to do the 
same. Consent was given, and with his friend, Harry Chan- 
ning, he signed as others had done. 

Mr. Seely knew his son’s good habits and suffered no fear of 
his falling into evil ways. 

Anxious to have her children together once more Mrs. Seely 
wrote to Rosamond the next day asking her to come home and 
remain until after Edward had gone South with his regiment. 

Her coming was an occasion of joy to them all; the more so 
because they were all desirous of seeing her little babe. For a 
time they almost forgot the sad parting that must take place 
in a few days. 

Edward, dressed in his new uniform, spent all the time at home 
that he could be allowed away from camp, where the soldiers 
spent most of each day in drilling—learning how to march and 
handle their swords and guns. 

As most of them had learned many different steps and move¬ 
ments while they belonged to the torchlight companies, they 
were soon ready and anxious—with an anxiety born of ignorance 
of real war and bloodshed—to go to the front. 

When the day arrived for them to leave, a multitude of peo¬ 
ple—relatives and friends—went to the camp to bid them 
goodbye. 

The regiment was formed in line—each soldier wearing 
his uniform and equipments; after marching and maneuvering 
for an hour, to the great admiration of the people, who frequently 
expressed their feelings in cheers and clapping of hands, a lady, 
accompanied by others bearing a beautiful flag, came before 
the regiment; after a brief address, commending their bravery 
and assuring them of the love and prayers that would follow 
them, she presented the flag to them. The commanding officer, 
alighting from the splendid black horse he rode, in behalf of 
the regiment accepted the flag and thanked the ladies and 
their friends for the gift. 

Although many eyes were filled with tears and many voices 
choked with sobs, three loud cheers were given by the soldiers, 


[ 76 ] 


War 


after which they returned to their tents and spent the remain¬ 
der of the day visiting with their friends. 

As Mrs. Seely turned away, having bidden Edward a last 
goodbye and pressed a lingering kiss upon his cheek, she saw a 
young soldier standing alone, as if he was a stranger to everyone. 
Extending her hand she spoke to him. 

He told her he had no friends there to bid him goodbye; his 
father was dead, his mother far away. Mrs. Seely shook hands 
with him again and said, “Let me kiss you for your mother.” 

Tears filled the young man’s eyes as he thanked her for her 
kindness and went into his tent. 

Rosamond, with her babe, returned to her husband a few days 
after Edward and his comrades had gone from Juliet. 

The war was the special theme upon which every one con¬ 
versed. 

Walter, who had always taken special interest in reading 
the histories of battles whenever they occurred in his studies, 
now trembled as he read about them with a new and intensified 
interest; they seemed so much more terrible now as he thought 
of Edward being engaged in similar conflicts, shot and shell 
flying all about him, men falling on every side, either killed or 
wounded. 

Mrs. Seely would always heave a sigh of relief after reading 
an account of a battle when Edward’s name was not among the 
injured. He had been gone from home a year, during which 
time his mother had written him many letters and sent many 
tokens of affection. 


[ 77 ] 


CHAPTER XI. 


Sorrow. 

Having returned from a visit to a sick sister in Chicago, Mrs. 
Seely, on the same evening, went to the school house where 
Mr. Vinton was to preach again. After the service he accom¬ 
panied Mrs. Seely and family to their home for entertainment 
for the night; he engaged the entire family present, to a late 
hour, in a religious conversation that proved very profitable 
to them all. 

When Walter took the light to show Mr. Vinton the room 
where he was to sleep the minister held him by the hand and 
tenderly conversed with him about his Christian life. Walter 
felt as he bade him good night that if he ever became a minister 
he would like to be such a one as Mr. Vinton. 

It was only two days later that Mrs. Seely requested Walter 
to remain home from school and assist her, as she was feeling 
very ill. 

During the day Mr. Seely went for Aunt Carrie and called 
the physician to prescribe for his wife, who pronounced her very 
sick. 

When Sunday came Walter and Martin quite reluctantly left 
their mother to attend Sunday school; but she requested them 
to go and not miss their lesson, assuring them she expected to 
recover soon. A deep sadness filled their minds. To a class¬ 
mate Walter expressed a fear that his mother was to be taken 
from him; he hastened home as soon as the school was dis¬ 
missed. When he and Martin entered the sick room of their 
mother they saw through the open door the family physician 
and two others talking with their father in low whispers in an 
adjoining room. Walter overheard the physicians saying “she 
is past our help and can live only a few hours.” 


[ 78 ] 



Sorrow 


It seemed to him a great weight had been suddenly laid upon 
his heart. He went to the bedside where his mother was 
lying; she took his hand in hers and asked if he had enjoyed 
the Sunday school. He was about to tell her that he had not 
as he was so anxious about her he could not think of his les¬ 
son, but at that instant his father came into the bedroom; 
Mrs. Seely inquired what the physicians had said about her case. 

“They think you are very sick,” Mr. Seely replied. 

“Do they think I can recover?” she asked. As Mr. Seely 
hesitated in answering her, she said calmly: “Do not hesitate 
to tell me, Sanford; I am not afraid to die. I think the Lord 
called me to His service last winter, that I might be ready for 
this hour; now, if He sees best to take me, I am ready and willing 
to go. I would like to know how long the physicians think I can 
live.” 

Seeing her so calm, Mr. Seely told her there remained only a 
few hours for her to live; anything she would like to say to him 
or her friends must be spoken soon, that they might do all in 
their power to fulfill her wishes. 

Remaining quite for a little time, as if in prayer, she said: 
“I would like to live for the sake of my family and the good 
I might do in the world, for it seems I have only just begun to 
live—but the Lord knows best! 

“Poor Edward! he is so far away and in so much danger; he 
writes that my letters are his greatest comfort; now he will 
have that comfort no more.” 

After a few moments silence she said: “I feared I should not 
see him again, but I thought it would be him and not me who 
would be taken. Write to him often; tell him mother remem¬ 
bered him to the last;—and Rosamond! Oh, if I could but 
see her and her dear child once more, I would be glad! Can 
she reach me while I live?” 

“It is Sunday,” said Mr. Seely; “the cars do not run today; 
the quickest way to reach her will be to send John across the 
country with the horses and carriage; it is a long distance, but 
he need not spare the team only so he reaches her and returns in 
time for her to talk with you.” 


[ 79 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


Word was sent to John at the barn to prepare for the jour¬ 
ney; when he was ready Mr. Seely called Aunt Carrie, asking 
her to remain with his wife while he gave John instructions 
about his journey and urged him to drive with all possible speed; 
if, on arrival, Rosamond and her husband could come quicker 
by train than by returning with him, they were to do so. 

The physicians remained a short time; then, as nothing more 
remained which they could do for the comfort or recovery of 
Mrs. Seely, they went their way to visit other patients. 

Approaching night shadowed the home. The boys, wearied 
with their long walk to Sunday school, were urged by Aunt 
Carrie to go to their room and rest; if their mother grew sud¬ 
denly worse she was to call them. Walter was even more weary 
than his walk to Sunday school had made him; the physician 
had prescribed wine as a stimulant for his mother; to procure 
it he went to a neighbor’s half a mile away. As he walked 
homeward in the darkness the odor of the wine reminded him 
of the “sling” John had given him years before, which he had 
relished so keenly; now the desire to taste it became so strong he 
could scarcely refrain from taking the cork from the bottle in 
his hand and drinking some of the contents; then he thought 
“how wicked it would be to indulge such a desire—that, too, 
when my mother is so ill and needs the wine for medicine.” 

He was ashamed, indeed, at his own thoughts; then, knowing 
it was a temptation from the Wicked One, he lifted his heart in 
prayer and the desire was gone in an instant. 

Reaching his home he gave the wine into his Aunt Carrie’s 
hands and stepped softly to the door of his mother’s sick room; 
for several minutes he gazed upon her face as she lay quietly 
sleeping; then, going to his room, he knelt and tearfully prayed 
God to give his mother a peaceful death. He knew she had 
become a Christian, but he longed to know if that would take 
away all fear in a dying moment. He then prayed for his 
father and brothers and Rosamond’s family. He asked the 
Lord especially to give him strength and wisdom to be a true 
Christian after his mother was gone. 

As’he prayed his heart was filled with peace; the very air 


[ 80 ] 


Sorrow 


seemed filled with soft, sweet music. Lying upon his bed he 
soon fell into a deep sleep, from which he and Martin were soon 
awakened to come to their mother’s room. As they entered 
the door they were startled by the change apparent in her face. 
Reaching her hand toward Martin she said: 

“Come, my baby boy, let mother wipe away your tears;” 
drawing him closely to her heart she clung to the sobbing child 
until Aunt Carrie came and led him from the room with the 
imprint of his mother’s last kiss upon his cheeks. 

As Walter approached the bedside, his fortitude, for a mo¬ 
ment, forsook him; but as his mother put her arms around his 
neck she spoke such words of comfort to him he soon became 
calm and talked with her. 

She assured him she felt no fear; that “the Christian has a 
peace in the dying hour that is indescribable.” He tried to tell 
her of his sorrow for all the pain and trouble he had caused her; 
she interrupted him by saying, “it is all forgiven and forgot¬ 
ten;” drawing him very near to her, so his cheek rested upon her 
cold forehead, she added, in tender tones: “Walter, be a good 
boy; live for God; do all the good you can in the world; try and 
bring many with you and meet mother in heaven.” 

Next she bade Mr. Seely, Aunt Carrie and others present 
goodbye—giving each a parting word. Again sending her last 
wishes to Rosamond and Edward—she folded her hands across 
her breast, closed her eyes and adjusted her head to her pillow, 
as if about to fall asleep—as indeed she was—“asleep in Jesus”— 
and her spirit gradually took its flight. The calm face remained 
as if she was sleeping sweetly. All was silence for a moment in 
the room; grief was hushed, as if in contemplation of the peaceful 
triumph of her departure—while through the open window the 
clock in the church spire in Lockwood was heard tolling the 
hour of midnight—midnight indeed to the sorrowing ones near 
her, whose ransomed spirit had entered the brightness of “high 
noon” in heaven. 


[ 81 ] 


CHAPTER XII. 


Sad Tidings. 

On through the darkness, John, who had left Mr. Seely’s 
house at sunset, was speeding his way rapidly as the horses 
could travel, that Rosamond might once more hear her moth¬ 
er’s voice. Alas! of no avail was speed now. 

Rosamond was not aware as yet even of her mother’s illness. 
So sudden had been the attack the hope of recovery had de¬ 
terred Mr. Seely from writing, until after hope had become hope¬ 
less, then no message could reach her before the end came. 
Rosamond had been quietly sleeping that Sunday night, with 
her babe upon her arm. Suddenly her husband was awakened 
by her restless movings and broken sobs. 

“Rosamond! Rosamond!” he called; “what is the trouble; 
are you sick?” 

Awakened from her sleep she exclaimed, in tears: “I fear 
some one is sick at home or Edward has been killed in battle. I 
feel so unspeakably sad.” 

With cheering words her husband soothed her fears and both 
soon fell asleep, only to be awakened again—just as the day 
was breaking—by the ringing of the door bell. Hastily dressing 
Clarence answered the call. Opening the door John entered, 
his coat damp with the night dew. 

“What is it, John?” asked Clarence. “Tell me quickly. 
Is anyone sick at home? Is Edward killed or wounded?” 

Through the open bedroom door Rosamond heard John 
saying: 

“It’s bad noos I hav’ fer yees and Rosamond, shure an’ it is, 
Mistlier Fairnswort; an’ Misther Saly said as how yees should 
cum on the fust tlirain, if yees can git thar quicker than wid me; 
the horses are purty well fagged.” 


[ 82 ] 



Sad Tidings 

“But, John,” called Rosamond, ‘‘you have not told what is 
the trouble.” 

“Faith and o’im sorry to till the loikes of yees, Rosamond; 
may the saints presairve us,” said John, crossing himself, “but 
Missus Saly is very bad, and the docthurs say as how she can’t 
get no bether, an’ yees are to cum home roight away, for yur 
mother wants to spake wid yees.” 

W ith a great fear upon her heart Rosamond arose and quickly 
dressed, while Clarence went with John to stable and feed the 
badly jaded horses. 

Returning to the house, he found, by consulting the time table 
of the railroad guide, that no train would pass for several hours; 
therefore, to fulfill their anxious longings they must needs re¬ 
turn with John. Long and weary was the journey. The sun 
was low when they entered Mr. Seely’s yard. 

Only too well the sad countenances of one and another who 
came to meet the new arrivals told—more plainly than words 
could tell—of the sad bereavement that had befallen them. 

In the cemetery at Lockwood, by the side of Rosalie, Mrs. 
Seely was laid to rest. 

“It is I, be not afraid,” were the words Mr. Vinton chose 
from which to draw the funeral lesson of consolation—showing 
that “under the cloud of death and sorrow—upon every sea of 
trouble—the Saviour walks, to scatter fears, calm the tempests 
and give us peace.” 

As soon as possible, Rosamond wrote a full account of their 
mother’s sickness and death and mailed it to Edward. 

With eager eyes and radiant expectations thousands of sol¬ 
diers stood waiting, watching the mail steamer as it wended its 
way along the winding channel of a southern river. 

As it touched the wharf in front of the camp the cry, “mail, 
mail,” went up from thousands of lips. One and another at 
the head of the long lines of soldiers received their letters, 
packages or papers and turned away to scan their contents; or, 
obtaining no reminder of home and loved ones far away, stepped 
dejectedly aside, while those behind moved steadily forward. 
Edward’s turn will soon come. He is unusually eager for the 


[ 83 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


last mail did not bring him his “weekly letter from mother.” 
His name was called and he extended his hand to receive his 
letters, but oh! among them one bordered and sealed with 
black, addressed in Rosamond’s handwriting! 

“Poor Rosamond!" surmised Edward, “this will tell the sor¬ 
row of her heart, bereft, no doubt, of that sweet babe on whose 
face we all enjoyed so much to look.” 

He had held the little one in his arms and fondly kissed her 
when he bade Rosamond and their mother the last lingering 
farewell at the camp in Juliet. 

Still he waited for other mail. “That is all, Edward!” said 
his comrades with voices filled with sympathy as they saw the 
dark-draped letter in his hand. 

“What, no letter from mother?” he asked, and turned with 
doubting hesitancy toward his tent. 

Shouts and laughter greeted his ears on all sides as he passed 
along. Some were shedding tears—but tears of joy—over the 
glad messages from home. Some, again, were sitting in deep 
dejection and disappointment, unable to rise above them on 
the waves of joy about them. 

Not until he had entered his tent, where his comrade—Henry 
Laurens—was enjoying the perusal of a late paper filled wdth 
“home news”—did Edward venture to unseal his letters, then 
he opened them one by one and read their contents. At last, 
taking the one w T ith the somber seal and border, in his hand, he 
said, turning to his comrade, “Henry, I dread to open this!” 

“Who is it from?” asked Henry. 

“It is addressed in Rosamond’s writing, but this is the sec¬ 
ond week with no letter from mother. Rosamond is at father’s, 
for the postmark is Lockwood,” he answered; slowly opening the 
seal he removed the letter—also bordered with black—and be¬ 
gan to read: 

“My Dear Brother Edward. 

How can I tell you, that, instead of mother’s welcome letter 
to you this week, mine must bear to you the sad tidings that 
our dear mother has been called from us.” 

He could read no farther. The greatest sorrow of his life 


[ 84 ] 


Sad Tidings 




swept against and over him as the waves dash against the 
ship in a storm; he could not endure the stroke it seemed to 
him; he could not escape it; overwhelmed with grief he pros¬ 
trated himself upon the blankets in his berth. The source 
from whence came his sweetest earthly comfort and encourage¬ 
ment—she whom he last thought of when entering the crash of 
battle, whose name was on his lips as he looked up at the stars 
from his bed upon the ground—she was gone. Before him still 
lay all the dangers of war and coming battles, with whatever 
of suffering or sorrw they might plunge him into and she was 
not in the old farm home to send him cheering messages. 

Unable to read more—after a time he handed the letter to 
Henry, requesting him to read the remainder aloud to him. 

The first shock was the worst—that was the battery’s ‘“broad¬ 
side;” what followed was but the narrative of the severe attack 
of disease and it’s sudden termination in his mother’s death; a 
recital of the peaceful, joyful dying moments—his mother’s 
fond farewell—her tender remembrances and messages to him. 

When the reading was finished, Edward, chastened but calm 
and greatly comforted by the reading, thanked Henry, who, 
rising from his camp stool, went from the tent leaving Edward 
to himself. Slowly there came that healing to his wounded 
heart which only time can affect. 


[ 85 ] 


CHAPTER XIII. 


The Two Harvests. 

The busy season of the year was drawing nigh; in a few days 
Mr. Seely’s house would be filled with workmen assisting him in 
harvesting. Aunt Carrie—as everyone came to call her who 
formed her acquaintance—feeling a genuine sympathy for her 
brother and his motherless boys, cheerfully complied with his 
request to come, with her two young daughters, and make their 
home with him until such time as Rosamond and her husband 
could come and live again in the home of her childhood and 
youth. 

When these arrangements had been completed, Rosamond 
and her husband returned to their own home. As the train 
bore them rapidly away from the depot in Lockwood, Rosamond 
turned her gaze toward the cemetery, hoping to catch a last 
glimpse of the place where her mother was calmly sleeping. 
The hills, however, hid the spot from view, and she turned her 
tearful eyes toward her little one nestling in her arms, inwardly 
hoping it might be her privilege to live and guard and guide the 
child’s unfolding life, that she might be to this one all her own 
mother had been to her. 

When the train rounded a curve in the distance and passed 
out of sight Mr. Seely untied his horses, taking Aunt Carrie 
and her girls into the carriage he drove with them to her 
little home. Having procured such articles as they required, a 
hasty drive soon brought them to the farm. 

While passing through the streets of Lockwood, Air. Seely 
heard someone loudly calling him by name; stopping his team, 
a man—just emerging from a saloon—inquired if he had com¬ 
menced harvesting. 

“I expect to begin next Alonday,” was the reply. 

“What wages will you pay?" was asked. 



The Tivo Harvests 


“Three dollars and a half a day, with board and lodging,” 
Mr. Seely answered—and added, “during these war. times 
wages are high, because men are scarce; but farmers who are 
getting two and three dollars a bushel for wheat can afford to 
pay good wages.” 

“I would like to work for you, Mr. Seely,” said the man; 
“some farmers will pay only two dollars and a half a day and 
what liquor we want. You will furnish that, of course?” 

“No sir, I will not furnish liquor,” said Mr. Seely, with de¬ 
cided emphasis; “what is more, I will not allow any man to 
bring it onto the farm.” 

The man’s bloated face colored even more deeply red than 
usual at this reply, and he said: 

“You cannot get men to work for you on those conditions, 
Mr. Seely; what is more, it would not be safe to work in the hot 
sun without stimulants; we would get ‘sunstroke.’ ” 

“Men will be all the more apt to get ‘sunstroke’ if they have 
their stomachs and veins full of fire while the hot sun is beating 
down upon them,” said Mr. Seely. “What is more,” he added, 
“if I cannot get any other help I will hire women.” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Carrie, smiling, “I can drive the reaper. 
What a pity,” she added, as the man turned and went into the 
saloon and Mr. Seely started homeward, “that men will hang 
around such places; it does not make any difference how much 
they earn as long as they drink and frequent such resorts. Their 
families get no benefit from their earnings and they save noth¬ 
ing. I am acquainted with that man’s wife; they have several 
children; she takes in washing to earn money to feed and clothe 
them. They have but little in their house; he has broken the 
furniture and dishes when he was intoxicated. They had a 
good start when they were married, but he has squandered it all. 
If it was not for his habits and the influence of the saloons and 
taverns he could be a prosperous man and make his family 
comfortable and happy.” 

As they entered the farmyard gate, Mr. Seely said, “I do 
not know who is most to blame, the men who make and sell 
liquor or those who drink it.” 


[ 87 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


"When Mr. Seely began his harvesting, with the help of his 
neighbors, he succeeded in getting his grain cut and bound in 
bundles, which Walter and Martin—who were having vaca¬ 
tion—carried together in piles for the men to set up in long 
shocks. 

Each day Aunt Carrie prepared a large pail of flour porridge 
or corn meal gruel, cooling it with a big piece of ice from the ice 
house on the farm, which the boys carried to the men between 
breakfast and dinner, as had been done in Mrs. Seely’s lifetime, 
when her husband began to withhold whiskey and rum from his 
harvesters. The men enjoyed it and all agreed they felt better 
for drinking it than they did when they drank alcoholic stimu¬ 
lants in the field. 

During the wheat harvest Mr. Seely received several letters 
from Edward, in which he made frequent reference to his mother, 
which deeply touched his father’s heart. 

He gave a long description of a battle in which he had just 
been engaged. “I was thinking of you,” he wrote. “When 
the battle was raging fiercest and men were falling in every di¬ 
rection, either killed or wounded, it reminded me that you were 
busy harvesting your wheat, which fell before the sickle, while 
we were engaged in a harvest of death. I must tell you of a 
very narrow escape which I had. The battle was fought near 
Murfreesboro; our forces were under the command of General 
Rosecrans. Our regiment—which, you know, is the 100th 
Illinois—was supporting a battery which was being fired over 
us at the enemy, as we lay upon the ground. You may depend 
we hugged the earth as closely as possible—even wished we 
were worms so we could crawl into it. 

“A comrade from Lockwood, lying at my left, was shot in 
the arm by a rebel bullet; he crept back between the cannon, 
and reached the rear, where the surgeons dressed his wound. 
I felt strangely impressed to change my position, and occupy 
the spot he had vacated. I did so, and the man on my right 
came where I had been lying; a moment later a shell from a rebel 
battery burst over us; a piece struck him on the head, killing 
him instantly. 


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THE TWO HARVESTS 

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The Tivo Harvests 


“I cannot understand why he was taken and I so narrowly 
escaped. 

“Several of the boys from Lockwood were either killed or 
wounded, but I am safe and sound, enjoying splendid health. 
I have been promoted, so my duties will be different, but what¬ 
ever they may be, I will try and discharge them faithfully. I 
have never once regretted having offered my service and life to 
my country.” 

When the harvesting was over, Mr. Seely gave the boys per¬ 
mission to spemd a few days visiting and hunting with their 
cousin, who lived in the woods beyond Lockwood. 

The long rambles among the trees—the whir-r- of part¬ 
ridges—so like the rising sound of prairie chickens so common 
among the grass and stubble on the prairie farms; the chip¬ 
munks—chattering and running along the fallen logs—remind¬ 
ing them of the striped gophers on the prairies, which the boys 
would chase into their holes in the ground, then, pouring water 
in after them, catching them as they came out to breathe, they 
were taken home and trained for pets; the squirrels, hopped 
from branch to branch, defying the boys unsteady aim, until 
they were lost to view among the thick foliage or hidden away 
in their holes in the trees—these, and scores of other interesting 
sights and sounds, to which Walter and Martin were unaccus¬ 
tomed on the almost boundless prairies with their shadeless 
sunlight and unobstructed view, made their visit in the woods 
days never to be forgotten. 

Weary of hunting, the boys were taught by their cousin to 
climb slender saplings; swinging off their feet while clinging fast 
with their hands the tops would bend until the feet of the boys 
would touch the ground; letting go with their hands the trees 
would spring back to a perpendicular position. 

Seeing one more slender and tall than any that had been 
climbed, Walter hastily ascended to the highest branch on which 
he could stand. Not being familiar enough with the trees of 
the forest to know the different qualities of wood and choose 
only the springy hickory saplings his cousin would have se¬ 
lected, he swung himself off with a shout to attract the atten- 


[ 89 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


tion of the other boys; the tree bent over slightly—suddenly the 
brittle top of the young ash snapped off like a pipe stem and 
Walter fell the entire distance—a score of feet—to the ground. 

With a cry of alarm his cousin ran to his assistance. After 
his first feeling of astonishment and fright were over, Walter 
sprang to his feet with neither bruise nor broken bones. 

“You prairie simpleton!” exclaimed his cousin, when he saw 
he was unhurt, “don’t you know an ash from a hickory?” at 
which Walter joined the other boys in a hearty laugh at his own 
ignorance. 

Returning to their home with many trophies of their visit 
in the woods, the boys rehearsed their various experiences to 
the eager listeners gathered about them. 

In thinking of the birds and squirrels they had killed while 
hunting with their cousin, Walter felt a pang of regret lest some 
young squirrels or nests of birds had been bereft of a mother’s 
care. Of late his sympathies toward all forms of animal life 
had been growing more tender. As he wandered through the 
fields in search of wild game the thought would come to him 
over and over, “I am wounding or taking the life of these inno¬ 
cent and defenseless creatures.” 

Having one day killed a beautiful bird—which had a yellow 
breast and mottled plumage—its mate flew about the place and 
called in plaintive notes for its companion. Its expression of 
distress and alarm so affected Walter he ceased from that time 
forth to take delight in his favorite pastime. 

The incident of the solitary bird flying disconsolately away 
caused him to feel that to some degree it would suffer the sense 
of loneliness he had experienced shortly after his mother’s 
death—ere the fact of her absence had become fixed in his 
mind. 

Coming into the house from work or play or school, calling 
her to tell her something or ask a question—as he had been 
accustomed to do—the echo of his own voice would fall upon 
his ears and ring through the rooms, where he had so often 
found her, ready to listen to his requests. 

Often had his heart been made to ache and his tears to flow. 


[ 90 ] 



The Two Harvests 


At such times Aunt Carrie would come to him, to find him alone 
with his face upon the floor—weeping bitterly. Knowing the 
cause of his grief—having heard his voice calling his mother— 
she would whisper in his ears such words of cheer and comfort 
as seldom failed to inspire him with a courageous and patient 
spirit like her own. 

“Do you think, Aunt Carrie,” he once asked her, “that our 
friends who leave this world, see us and know what we say and 
do?” 

She replied by requesting him to get his Testament. 
When, by her direction, he had turned to Matt. 22:30, he read: 
“For in the resurrection, they neither marry nor are given in 
marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven.” 

“In that verse you see, Walter,” said Aunt Carrie, “the 
condition of those who have left this world and gone to heaven. 

“Now turn to Hebrews 1:14, and you will learn what they 
are doing.” Finding the place, Walter read: “Are they not all 
ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be 
heirs of salvation?” 

He then read Matt. 19:10: “Take heed that ye despise not 
one of these little ones, for I say unto you, that in heaven, 
their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in 
heaven.” 

“Do you believe you are an heir of salvation, Walter?” 
asked Aunt Carrie. 

“I do,” was his reply, “because the things I once loved I now 
hate.” 

“Well, then, if our friends who are in heaven, are ‘as the 
angels,’ ” said Aunt Carrie, “they must be employed as the 
angels are; it seems from what you have just read that one duty 
of the angels is to stand in the presence of God—that is, behold 
Him—hear His commands—then, though unseen by us, in some 
blessed manner influence us for good.” 

“Then you think,” said Walter, “we are not alone by night 
or day—that the angels are near us all the time, also our 
friends, who ‘are as the angels,’ although we cannot see them?” 

“I think the Bible teaches it very plainly,” said Aunt Carrie. 


191 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“I am glad to hear it,” said Walter, “for I do not think I 
shall feel so lonely as I have.” 

The conversation not only made a comforting impression on 
Walter’s mind, it also served to restrain him from participating 
in many mischievous sports which his mother had taught him 
were not right. His answer to those who asked his co-operation 
in questionable doings was: “If my mother were to look from 
heaven and see me do wrong, she would be grieved,” which 
often led to their abandoning their projects, rather than un¬ 
dertake them without his presence and help. 


[ 92 ] 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Trial and Reunion. 

A temptation, however, such as Walter had never met, came 
to him in a manner so sudden and unexpected that he not only 
failed to resist it, but yielded to a degree that filled him with 
shame and sorrow as soon as it was over. 

A young man, much older than he, visiting at his father’s, 
was walking with him along the streets in Lockwood. 

Suddenly stopping in front of a place with screens before the 
doors and windows, the young man took Walter by the arm and 
hurried him in before he could make any inquiries or offer 
objections. Once inside, Walter knew it was a saloon. All his 
mother’s teachings, all the warnings he had heard against en¬ 
tering such places, came rushing into his mind. He stood dumb¬ 
founded for a moment—gazing at the pictures on the walls; 
some represented prize fights; others illustrated horse races or 
gaudy women improperly dressed. There were tables and 
chairs standing about. 

Across the end of the room, opposite the door, was a counter 
and shelves filled with bottles. The room was full of tobacco 
smoke and other vile odors. Behind the counter stood a fine- 
looking young man, smoothly shaved and well dressed, wearing 
a white apron and with a cigar in his mouth. Several men had 
evidently been there and gone away recently. 

The young man with Walter stepped up to the counter or 
bar and asked the man wearing the apron to give him a glass 
of brandy. He drank it, then called for a glass of wine for 
Walter and urged him to drink it. He refused—for it seemed 
to him he could see his mother’s face between him and the glass 
to keep him from drinking. In vain he protested; the young 
man urged it upon him—even putting it to his lips until he 


[ 93 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


tasted the—so-called—wine. The fiery liquid burned his 
mouth and throat, stifling his breath; grasping a glass of water 
from the counter he drank its contents. The others only 
laughed, as they saw his frightened looks. 

When Walter and his companion stepped out upon the side¬ 
walk, they glanced both ways to discover if anyone they knew 
saw them coming from the place. 

Walter inwardly despised himself for remaining inside one 
minute, as much as he blamed the young man for forcing him in. 
The only response the young man made to his protests against 
the whole affair was the remark, “Pshaw! that is nothing; I am 
used to such places in Chicago.” 

The feeling that he had taken a step toward ruin alarmed 
Walter. The thought that he had disgraced his Christian pro¬ 
fession filled his heart with a true spirit of repentance. It was 
the first, and he firmly resolved it should be the last time his 
feet should ever enter a saloon for any such purpose. 

He charged the young man not to tell his folks at home, 
reasoning that if they did not know it, and he never repeated 
the act, no harm could come of it. 

Many things the young man told Walter, during their walk 
to the farm, which he had not known before—wicked, vile 
things, of which the young man acknowledged himself and 
others guilty., 

“You are green,” he said to Walter; “if you lived in Chicago, 
where I do, you would get your eyes opened,” then he laughed 
as he observed Walter's look of astonishment. 

“One thing is sure,” said Walter, “I do not wish to live in a 
city if I would have to see and do such things as you have de¬ 
scribed; but I think there must be some good people living in 
cities and I do not think there is any need of people doing as you 
have done.” 

Walter felt inclined to tell Martin his afternoon’s adventure 
after they had retired that night, but he feared to do so. Martin 
had seen several drunken men and had a horror of those who 
drank or entered saloons, therefore he kept the secret to himself, 
confident no one in the family would discover or hear of it. 


[ 94 ] 


Trials and Reunions 


Great was his surprise the next afternoon when Aunt Carrie— 
who had been to Lockwood with Mr. Seely that morning—said 
to him: “I feel very sad, Walter, on account of something I 
heard today.” 

“What was it you heard, Aunt Carrie?” he asked, about to 
make a full confession which she interrupted by saying: 

“I heard you went into a saloon in Lockwood and drank a 
glass of wine; I cannot express my sorrowful surprise at the re¬ 
port, nor will I believe it, unless you say it is true.” 

“Yes, Aunt Carrie,” said Walter, “I did go into a saloon with 
Mr. Shoals. He all but forced me to drink something he called 
wine—I took but a sip of the fiery stuff and it nearly strangled me. 
I felt like death when I found mvself inside a saloon. It seemed 
as if mother’s spirit was right before me. I am more sorry 
than words can tell, for, however wrong Mr. Shoals did in lead¬ 
ing me in and urging me to drink, I did not do right in yielding. 
While I did not intend telling you, fearing it would make you 
sad, I am glad you know it and spoke in your kindness to me.” 

Aunt Carrie’s eyes were moist with tears, as Walter finished 
his frank confession; he discerned the depth and sincerity of her 
love for him, and how greatly what she had heard about him 
alarmed her. He did not care to know who informed her; it 
was sufficient that she knew the facts, and still gave him her con¬ 
fidence, and that sympathy he so longed for. 

Autumn returned again and the beginning once more of 
school in the white school house, which Martin continued to 
attend, while Walter entered the high school in Lockwood. 

Aunt Carrie and her daughters returned to their home; Rosa¬ 
mond and her family came back to the old homestead, giving 
Martin a home with them, while Mr. Seely planned to travel 
and visit for a time, his friends in the East, and enjoy once 
more—after many years—the scenes of his boyhood. 

Time had somehwat healed the wound which Rosamond 
had suffered when she had entered the old home—so shrouded 
with grief—a few months before; still the absence of the 
familiar face and the greetings of her mother’s cheerful voice, 
opened afresh the fountain of her tears. 


[ 05 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


The winter’s snows had just begun to fall when a Sabbath 
day saw gathered around their family board Rosamond and 
Clarence with their two children—for a baby boy had come to 
add care and gladness to their home—also Martin—and Walter 
who had come from Lockwood for the Sabbath, before their 
father started on his journey. Their joy would have been com¬ 
plete but for the vacant places—mother’s and Rosalie’s—these to 
remain forever vacant—the other waiting—with a shadow of un¬ 
certainty across it—-for Edward’s return. 

The presence of Rosamond’s children was to the boys an ex¬ 
citing novelty; there seemed no end to their delight. The 
oldest soon exacted a large share of their attention in childish 
sports, while her broken speech and curious pranks were an 
hourly source of amusement. 

Mr. Seely sportively complained of a sense of rapidly in¬ 
creasing decreptitude, since the venerable title of “Grand¬ 
father” had been conferred upon him. Rosamond thought, 
however, she discovered rather a renewal of his youth, as he 
playfully indulged the liberties childish fingers were wont 
to take with his wavy hair and beard. 

“Never such humorings,” Rosamond declared, “did I 
know or experience when a child.” The boys were surprised to 
see that their father had so far recovered from his rheumatism as 
to play “bear back” with his little granddaughter, as he—on 
“all fours”—bore her on his back about the room They had 
years before ceased asking for indulgence in that delightful 
sport on account of his growing infirmity. 

When Monday came, so loth w T as the family to separate, a 
week of absence from school was granted the boys and their 
father postponed his journey. During the week John brought 
home from the postoffice a newspaper. Hastily opening it, Mr. 
Seely read aloud: “A most terrific battle at Chickamauga; 
thousands killed, wounded or prisoners; the enemy defeated.” 

Reading down the column—to ascertain what troops w r ere 
engaged—he soon learned that Edward’s regiment was men¬ 
tioned; the colonel had lost an arm; many whose names were 
familiar were among the killed or wounded, but Edward’s name 


[ 96 ] 


Trials and Reunions 


was not found in either list; reading the names of those “miss¬ 
ing” or “prisoners” his eyes fell on Edward’s. But, was he 
missing and dead or was he wounded and a prisoner? No more 
could be learned. Hoping against hope, they waited—in keen¬ 
est suspense—the arrival of tidings concerning him. 


[ 97 ] 


CHAPTER XV. 


Doomed Issues and Customs. 

Since Rosamond’s return her former friends and neighbors 
had made her frequent friendly visits. The evening following 
the news of the battle just referred to, Mr. Steele and his wife 
from an adjoining farm called to spend a social hour. 

After the usual greetings were over, Rosamond engaged Mrs. 
Steele in conversation relative to domestic matters, while Mr. 
Seely and Clarence Farnsworth conversed with Air. Steele; 
one of whose sons had enlisted in Edward’s regiment. His 
father objected to his entering the army, being opposed, as he 
was, to the issues in defense of which his son was sworn to do 
battle. Air. Steele and his wife were still more embittered in 
their feelings because their son had fallen an early victim to the 
hardships of the camp and march. 

On the occasion of this visit conversation gradually turned 
toward the great issues before the country, growing out of the 
causes and probable results of the war. 

“It has ceased to be a war,” said Mr. Steele, “to suppress the 
rebellion and save the Union; it is being waged for the purpose 
of abolishing an institution older than the government itself 
and as essential to the prosperity of the South and the well¬ 
being of the country as the air we breathe.” 

“But,’* asked Mr. Seely, “was the war begun for that pur¬ 
pose by those who are opposed, as you say, ‘to this old insti¬ 
tution,’ or was it begun by them at all?” 

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Steele, after a moment’s reflection. 

“Then,” Air. Seely asked, “if not begun by them, and not 
entered into originally for the purpose of abolishing the institu¬ 
tion of slavery, why this war? By whom was it begun and for 
what purpose?” 


[ 98 ] 



Doomed Issues and Customs 


Seeing Mr. Steele hesitated to answer, he resumed, by say¬ 
ing: “If the opponents of slavery did not begin the war, then 
the friends of slavery must have begun it; they did fire the first 
gun. If the opponents of slavery had threatened its existence 
by resorting to armed force it would have been because the 
friends of the institution demanded first, that it be not mo¬ 
lested, and second, that it be defended by the whole nation and 
its extension be allowed into other states and territories? Are 
not these two ideas the main causes that have incited the 
friends of slavery in their course of action?” 

“But,” said Mr. Steele, “has not the President proclaimed 
the slaves free? Is not the war continued under his authority 
to enforce his proclamation?” 

“Very true,” answered Mr. Seely; “because the issues 
forced upon the country by the friends of slavery—now in 
arms for its protection—is simply this: their victory means 
the maintenance and possible—although not probable—exten¬ 
sion of slaverv. The enforcement of the ‘Proclamation of 
Emancipation’—made at this late day in the progress of the 
strife as an imperative ‘war measure’—means the defeat of the 
friends of slavery, also the preservation of the Union and the 
removal forever from our midst, of an institution that could 
never be less in proportions and disturbing influence; but 
which must continue to increase if allowed to exist. 

“I can but feel the friends of slavery, by bringing on this 
crisis, plainly illustrate the maxim, ‘whom the gods would de¬ 
stroy, they first make mad.’ But think for one moment, Mr. 
Steele, of the blessings freedom will bring to the four millions 
of people now in bondage!” 

“They will not make a right use of their freedom; they are 
not capable of being any higher than they are,” said Mr. Steele, 
bitterly. 

“Tut, tut,” retorted Mr. Seely, in a tone of mild resentment. 

“Does not the experience of the few who have obtained their 
freedom in various ways, possessing no better faculties than 
those not yet free from the yoke and its direful influences, go 
to prove the colored man can rise in the scale of moral, mental, 


[ 99 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

commercial and social development? Is it not the fault of the 
institution rather than of the individuals that they are what 
they are?” 

“Do you believe, Mr. Seely,” asked Mr. Steele, “that slav¬ 
ery—if abolished—can be kept suppressed in all sections of the 
country?” 

“Have we not prevented it in the free states and territories? 
Has not England prevented it since slavery was abolished in 
the British dominion?” replied Mr. Seely, and added: “You 
may rest assured, sir, when this war ends—although that may 
not be until millions more of money have been spent and thou¬ 
sands more of noble lives have been sacrified—slavery will be 
so dead in this country there will not be one dark hand uplifted 
with a shackle on it; and further,” he continued, as an expres¬ 
sion of deep anxiety passed over his countenance, “although 
tonight I am oppressed with feelings of deepest solicitude for 
Edward, who was among the missing after the late terrible 
battle, I would rather he remain on a Southern battlefield and 
Walter and Martin join him, than that slavery be not abolished 
ere this war closes.” 

“But,” asked Mr. Steele, “what will the Southern people do 
if the slaves are freed and the wealth they represent is lost?” 

“What will the people of the South do?” repeated Mr. Seely, 
and answered, “they will have to do just as we in the North 
have done—and prospered thereby—they will have to work, and 
teach their sons and daughters to work, as we do ours. They 
may have to work side by side—in the house and in the field— 
with their hired help as we do, if they cannot afford to live with¬ 
out work. Their false ideas of the dignity of labor must be cor¬ 
rected, and their lack of skill be obviated by the cultivation of 
personal industry. 

“The South is not more needy nor less capable than the 
North. The South is not less highly favored in natural re¬ 
sources than we of the North—indeed, their climate is favor¬ 
able to all and many more products than our own. 

“W T hile they are not more avaricious than we are, it is their 
great misfortune that their avarice has led them to exercise 


[ 100 ] 


Doomed Issues and Customs 

their power over a weaker race, to profit by their unrequited 
service, instead of developing the skill and intelligence of all 
classes of people, as we have done. 

“Should this war result in putting an end to slavery in this 
country—as it surely will, Mr. Steele—I predict it will not be 
over a score or two of years before the South shall have rallied 
from the immediate effects of the war—and their industries 
will vie with ours; their school system and college instruction 
will equal the best, and the colored race will rise in the scale of 
development, on an equal footing with the white popula¬ 
tion.” 

“Would you be in favor of paying the South for their slaves?” 
inquired Mr. Steele. 

“I studied on that question considerably before the war be¬ 
gan,” said Mr. Seely. 

“Sometimes I almost concluded that if slaverv was abol- 

t/ 

ished—inasmuch as the general government favored or permitted 
it— and men have been encouraged to invest their wealth in 
slaves—the owners should be paid for their loss; or, that after 
a certain date, all children born of slave mothers should be 
born to freedom and remain free. Why, sir, the free states 
alone might better have bought and paid gold for all the slaves 
and set them free than to have suffered the loss of life and 
wealth the war will cost us. 

“The slave states, on the other hand, would have saved 
immensely by setting their slaves free—without compensation, 
rather than have forced war upon the country; now they will 
undoubtedly lose their slaves and suffer their share of the con¬ 
sequence of this long and bloody struggle. 

“Inasmuch, however, as they have violated the laws of the 
general government that had so long protected their ‘peculiar 
institution,’ I hold—what seems to me every candid person 
will admit—they forfeited their claims—if such they in justice 
ever had—to any and all remuneration. That they will receive 
no compensation appears from the fact that slaves were not 
held in the interest of the government, but as their private 
property, and must suffer the fate of all private property or 


[ 101 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

public possessions lost in an attempt to overthrow the govern¬ 
ment. 

“Do you think it is just, Mr. Steele, that one class of men— 
and that the minority—should profit by the weakness or mis¬ 
fortune of others, as slave owners and those who manufacture 
and sell intoxicating beverages are doing? ” asked Clarence Farns¬ 
worth, who was as deeply concerned in the latter part of his 
question as Mr. Steele and his father-in-law had been in the 
former. 

“By no means,” Mr. Steele replied, slowly, as he saw the 
digression and force of the question Clarence had propounded. 

“But,” he added, “when a custom has become so thoroughly 
established as slavery has, it is very difficult to change it. I 
acknowledge, Mr. Seely’s arguments seem unanswerable, 
relative to it, and the present issue bids fair to result as he 
predicts.” 

“Yes,” added Mrs. Steele—who, with Rosamond had been 
deeply interested in the latter part of this conversation—“and 
I hope it will come to pass very soon and this cruel war be over, 
for I do not feel I can spare another son. My poor boy lies 
tonight sleeping his last, long sleep, far from those who loved 
him.” 

After the departure of Mr. Steele and his wife, Mr. Seely 
planned an early journey to Juliet on the following morning to 
ascertain, if possible, further particulars concerning Edward. 

Hearing of a wounded soldier who had just been brought 
home, Mr. Seely went to him and learned that he was wounded 
while standing near Edward in the line of battle. They heard a 
shout and looked about and discovered that they were being 
surrounded by the enemy. Edward had only time enough to 
hand him his watch, saying, “take it to my father, if you ever 
see him”—when he and several others were ordered, at the 
point of the bayonet, to lay down their arms and surrender; 
they were marched away as prisoners, leaving their wounded 
comrade on the ground, and they saw each other no more. 

Taking Edward’s watch from a box on the table beside him, 
the soldier handed it to Mr. Seely, who, taking it in his hand, 


[ 102 ] 


Doomed Issues and Customs 


gazed at it for some moments in silence. His thoughts were far 
away—his feelings too deep for utterance. 

At length, rousing from his reveries,—thanking the soldier 
heartily for his information and kindness to Edward, Mr. Seely 
asked where he supposed he was taken. 

“It is impossible to tell,” was the reply, “but you will prob¬ 
ably hear directly from him in a few days.” 

The prediction proved true, for a letter was received from 
Edward, stating he was well, and, although the rations were 
limited and very poor, the men could live on them for a few 
days, then they expected to be exchanged or paroled. 

Comforted in the knowledge that he was alive and in good 
health, Mr. Seely and his family lived in daily expectation of 
welcoming him home again. 


[ 103 ] 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Changes and Crosses. 

While pursuing his studies in Lockwood high school Walter 
had many opportunities of meeting Mr. Vinton and enjoyed the 
privilege of attending church and Sunday school. 

His visits with Aunt Carrie were frequent, while Saturdays 
often found him wending his way to the farm home for a few 
hours pleasure with Rosamond and her children or assisting 
Clarence in his farm work. 

Professor Herford’s splendid instructions inspired his best 
endeavors, supplementing the impression of his father’s parting 
words as he left the farm to begin his school work in Lockwood: 

“Do your best, my son; remember how hard we have worked 
to earn the money that will be expended in your education.” 

The aimless indifference of manv of his classmates filled 
Walter with surprise. Intermissions were scenes of busy dis¬ 
cussion of the last sleigh ride or planning for the next party. 
He was occasionally invited; but, discovering how unfitted he 
was for study, by the late hours, he soon began to decline their 
invitations. His plain clothes were also the cause of slighting 
remarks, but he comforted himself with the remark his mother 
had often made in her counsels, “Clothes do not make a true 
gentleman or lady. Character is what we are; reputation is 
only what people think of us; hence a reputation —of being a 
lady or gentleman—based on fine clothes, would end when the 
clothes were worn out; but if we have a true character and a good 
education, we will never lack good friends and will get on success¬ 
fully in the world.” 

In one of his Sunday evening sermons to young men, Mr. 
Vinton said: “The habits you form before you are twenty-one 
years old will largely influence you ever after.” Although 


[ 104 ] 



Changes and Crosses 


Walter had passed only his fifteenth birthday, his pastor’s re¬ 
mark led his mind forward to his twenty-first year, and he re¬ 
solved to be more careful than ever, to improve his time and 
form right habits. He was very much encouraged when Mr. 
Vinton remarked that “most of the ministers, doctors, lawyers, 
teachers and prominent business men spent the first fifteen 
years of their life on farms, working or attending country 
schools in the day time and improving their evenings mostly in 
reading and study. 

Walter overheard some young men behind him saying, 
“We don’t care if they did; we are not ‘hayseeds;’ we are not 
going to put our eyes out by sitting up nights, studying by can¬ 
dle light.’’ Many in the congregation looked at each other in 
astonishment when Mr. Vinton said, with great enphasis: 
“I greatly fear were it not for the young men and women who 
are coming from the farms to fill professional places and conduct 
commercial enterprises, our country would be threatened with 
a danger greater than the war that is now in progress.” He de¬ 
scribed his own home on a farm among the hills of New England, 
and paid an affectionate tribute to the memory of his sainted 
mother. 

When Walter learned the following day that his teachers had 
come from farm homes, and w^ere admired for their genteel man¬ 
ners as well as for their character and scholarship, he concluded 
he, too, in time would so improve in manners and personal 
appearance that his classmates would not sneer at him for his 
country ways. To him it was a disappointment and sorrow 
that so few of his schoolmates were Christians. He had hoped 
to find among the boys some who would join him in forming a 
praying band. On the contrary, he was critized by them, after 
making a public prayer, as having “made it up beforehand and 
repeated it from memory.” Not so, however, for his daily 
communion with his Unseen Friend in secret, qualified him to 
“confess Him” by calling on His name in public. 

His Bible was a part of his daily reading and a source of 
delight. He was made more careful in his reading when he 
recalled the beautiful motto in the Sunday school room— 


[ 105 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


printed in colors and golden letters: “Wherewithal shall a 

YOUNG MAN CLEANSE HIS WAY? BY TAKING HEED THERETO 
ACCORDING TO THY WORD.”- Psalm 119, 9. 

Claude Sharon became an exception to the many boys in the 
high school, and in time Walter’s most intimate friend. 

At the beginning of the term they were strangers. When 
Walter saw him smoking a cigar he did not wish to be intimate 
with him. Learning, however, that his parents were not living— 
he had no sister nor known relative, his only brother having gone 
away and not returned—his sympathies were enlisted, and they 
frequently spent an evening in each other’s room. At such 
times Claude preferred to converse upon religious themes and 
read good books. 

In him Walter felt he should find a true Christian friend and 
soon his expectations were realized. As the springtime came, 
they often walked to the cemetery. On one occasion Walter’s 
heart was unusually full of peace and happiness, while Claude 
appeared sad and lonely. They visited the sacred places where 
their mothers were at rest. There Walter expressed his belief 
that his mother’s spirit waited in heaven for his coming—he 
should meet her again. 

“I have no such hope,” said Claude; “I wish I had your joy 
and experience, Walter.” 

“You need not have mine, Claude,” Walter replied, as they 
sat down on a shaded knoll; “you may have a joyful experience 
of your own; it may be even more full than mine has been; it is 
for you and you are freely invited to obtain it as soon as you 
will.” 

“But I am not a Christian, Walter!” Claude replied, “and my 
life has been so full of evil things, as well as sad ones, I fear I 
can never be good and happy. I have lived and worked in 
many places since my parents died when I was three years old, 
but I have not had what could be called ‘a home.’ My compan¬ 
ions have often been wicked and profane and I have fallen in 
with their evil ways. I heard Mr. Vinton’s sermon to young 
men. I thought, by some things he said, he meant me. I am a 
year older than you and my habits have clung to me so long. 


[IOC] 


Changes and Crosses 


I fear I shall not escape from them before I am twenty; my fu¬ 
ture will be like my past has been; but oh! Walter, I do not wish 
to live as I have been living. Will you pray for me, that I may 
live a better life?” 

His voice was broken and his eyes were filled with tears. 
Together they knelt upon the green grass. Walter prayed 
long and earnestly for his young friend. With an audible re¬ 
sponse from Claude, they arose from their knees; observing 
that the sun was about to set they retraced their steps to 
Claude’s room to spend the night together. 

After devoting a portion of the evening to the study of the 
Bible, they conversed far into the night upon the topic upper¬ 
most in their minds. Claude firmlv resolved to turn from his 
evil habits and associates, praying daily, for strength to keep 
his newly formed resolutions. 

The change in his conduct was soon observed by the family 
with whom he lived, also by his schoolmates and teachers. 

His buoyant disposition, while less hilarious, still found ex¬ 
pressions in vivacious merriment, but all coarseness—all pro¬ 
fane vulgarity was being refined away; his laughter was not an 
effort to subdue the strivings of a guilty conscience—as he had 
confessed to Walter it had often been—but rather the outburst 
of a mind at rest, conscious that it had something worth laughing 
for. He was a frequenter and favorite at dancing parties when 
Walter first met him. They consumed much of his time and 
what money he earned, aside from that necessary for his board, 
clothing and school books. 

Walter argued with him concerning the amusement of dancing 
until he became satisfied if he would become a happy, useful 
Christian he must discontinue the practice. 

In him Walter saw the captivating influence of dancing in 
the almost regretful look upon his face when declining an invi¬ 
tation from his young friends to attend a party with them. 

When alone with Walter he would sometimes shuffle or dance 
a few steps to some tune he would sing or whistle—then, check¬ 
ing himself with a laugh, he would say, “I declare, I don’t be¬ 
lieve my feet are thoroughly converted yet.” 


[ 107 ] 


r 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

t 

“Perhaps,” said Walter; “but the best way to break up bad 
habits is to form good ones; the Bible says, ‘overcome evil with 
good,’ and, ‘where sin did abound, grace shall much more 
abound/ 

“To escape bad associates and their influence, choose only 
those who will be helpful, until you are strong enough to win 
the erring, instead of being overcome by them.” 

“Have I not done so already? Have I not given up nearly 
all the other boys and stuck to you like a tick?” said Claude, 
laughingly. 

“Yes, but what I mean is,” said Walter, “if you have fully 
decided to live a Christian life, why not unite with some 
church—Mr. Vinton’s or Mr. Palmer’s? You will then have 
the help of a great many, which will be vastly better than I 
can do for you alone.” 

“Don’t you think a person can be a Christian and not unite 
with a church?” asked Claude. 

“There are some Christians who are not connected with a 
church, I presume,” Walter answered; “but if a person does 
not love Christians well enough to unite with them in order to 
help them and be helped by them, in worshiping God and doing 
good, he cannot be a very devoted Christian; do you think 
so: 

“I think I would prefer to have my daily life show that 
I am a Christian,” Claude half objected. 

“Will an open profession and uniting with a church prevent 
your life showing your professions are genuine?” asked Walter; 
“you certainly are not afraid to confess your Saviour before 
the world?” 

Beginning to fear Claude was trying to be a Christian and 
keep the fact from all the boys but him, he said: 

“If you do not let others know you are a Christian, I fear it 
will not be long until you will not know it yourself. When I 
was converted I loved everyone, but especially Christians, and 
desired their company above all others; instead of waiting I 
wished to unite with Mr. Vinton’s church at once. Then I 
began to fear lest I might be tempted and fall away, thus dis- 


X 


[ 108 ] 


Changes and Crosses 


gracing myself and the church. But one night I met Mr. 
Harrison, who teaches the young men’s class; I told him how I 
felt; he convinced me of my mistake, showing me plainly it was 
Satan’s device; by keeping me away from the help and influence 
of the church I would be more easily led into evil ways. Taking 
my hand in his, as he lifted his eyes toward the starlit skies, he 
said: ‘Walter, let us both make a new covenant now and here 
to live true Christian lives; as we stand beneath those beautiful 
stars, may the angels in heaven witness our covenant.’ I 
united with the church soon after; my heart was filled with faith 
and courage, nor have I been tempted once to wish I had not 
assumed the solemn vows of the church.” 

Claude promised to think and pray over the matter; the 
next Sunday, after Mr. Vinton had finished preaching, he went 
forward, giving his name and requesting baptism at the next 
communion. 


[ 109 ] 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Self-Denial or Defeat. 

In their confidential talks Claude had confessed to Walter 
that several times he had been intoxicated, and had a passion¬ 
ate fondness for cigars—Walter having observed the latter 
statement as true from what he had seen. 

He, in turn, told Claude of his experience with Mr. Shoals; 
also how in the days before his father refused to have intoxi¬ 
cating beverages used on the farm, he acquired a great fondness 
for anything that contained the taste of alcohol, while tobacco 
in any form was offensive to him. He related his first and only 
attempt to smoke a cigar, in company with half a dozen others 
of his own age. It made him deathly sick. 

“I promised the Lord,” he said, half laughing, “if He 
would only spare my life that time, I would never smoke 
again. My vow remains unbroken.” 

“I wish my first cigar had affected me that way,” said Claude. 

During the winter a temperance society was organized in 
Lockwood. Walter and Claude attended the first meeting. 

When the “pledge” was read, forbidding the use of sweet 
cider, they both hesitated to sign it, as did many others. 

“What harm can there be in drinking sweet cider?” was asked, 
one gentleman saying, “I am drinking it three times a day and 
some days more often, on my physician’s recommendation.” 
All agreed that hard, cider was neither safe nor so enjoyable as a 
beverage. 

“But,” said one—the owner of a large orchard—“I shall not 
know what to do with all my cider apples if I sign this pledge.” 

“Well,” said Walter—who was the youngest person present— 
“I do not care enough about drinking it to refuse to sign the 
pledge; I do not see as the pledge can be divided and the cider 


[ 110 ] 



Self Denial or Defeat 


clause left out, or a privileged class be admitted to the society, 
just to accommodate a few of us.” 

“You would all admit,” said the lecturer, “the pledge is 
none too strong could you have witnessed and heard what I 
have as the result of drinking even sweet cider.” 

“Please explain,” said a lady present, “and possibly we shall 
all feel differently about the matter.” 

To the request he replied, by saying: 

“When I was lecturing in a certain town a man came for¬ 
ward and signed the pledge. After the meeting was over he 
came to my room at the hotel and told me a part of his history. 
He had been well educated, possessing a large fortune left him 
by his father. He married an excellent girl and they were en¬ 
joying life in an elegant home, with their three beautiful chil¬ 
dren. He formed the habit of drinking a social glass; at length 
his appetite craved a more frequent indulgence. He became an 
inebriate, squandered his property, beggared and neglected his 
family. 

“Through the prayers and influence of his Christian wife, he 
was reformed and converted to a Christian life. Prosperity 
began to return and the blight on his life and happiness seemed 
about removed. One day, however, he was invited to dine 
with a friend in the country—the owner of a large orchard and 
a cider mill. He was invited to drink cider —just from the 
'press —with his friend. He did so, not suspecting that any harm 
would follow, but it aroused his appetite for stronger beverages. 
Returning home, he went to a saloon and drank brandy and 
beer until dead drunk. Unable to control himself—breaking 
through all the restraints of family, religion, society and busi¬ 
ness—he soon became a common drunkard.” 

“But,” inquired the lady again, “how was it possible for the 
cider to arouse his appetite?” 

“I see our friend, Dr. Leonard, is present with us,” said the 
lecturer; “as he is an excellent chemist and physiologist, he can 
answer your question better than I.” 

Dr. Leonard was indeed a scholar and skillful physician, but 
unfortunately had become so addicted to the use of strong 


[ 111 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


drink his business was ruined. Hoping to obtain some encour¬ 
agement and help in battling against his appetite, he had come 
to the meeting. Being thus called upon, he arose in his place 
and said: 

“But few people, unused to it, know the power of appetite 
for strong drink when once formed—how hard to overcome, how 
easily aroused. The odor or taste of alcohol would at once pass 
from the desire and memory of most healthy, temperate people, 
while they would cause an inebriate to long for it, hence it takes 
but a very mild form of alcohol to arouse his dormant passion. 
Cider, after being made, begins very soon to generate alcohol. 
While its presence might not be detected by a person with a 
healthy appetite the condition or taste of another, vitiated by 
the excessive use of alcohol, would detect its presence or per¬ 
haps associate it with the very act of drinking even sweet cider, 
and feel the awakening power of a slumbering demon 
overcoming the weakness of his will and bodily condition.” 

The Doctor spoke with great emphasis when he uttered the 
last sentence or two, as if he was then wrestling with a strong 
and cruel monster, which had, on slight provocation, attacked 
him again and again. 

The lady made no reply, so the lecturer arose and said: 

“We owe it as a Christin duty to the weak to deny ourselves 
a luxury that would be a temptation to them. In one case I 
knew a man who signed this pledge, which I read in your hear¬ 
ing, then turned his extensive cider works into a vinegar fac¬ 
tory. Another made his cider into jell; both found ready and 
profitable markets for their products. They did it because 
they saw their boys were becoming dissipated by drinking cider 
in various stages of fermentation.” 

To Walter the discussion gave unthought-of reasons why he 
should sign the “ironclad pledge,” as some present styled it. 
He had frequently gone with Martin to Mr. Steele’s to procure 
cider for the men, who were husking his father’s corn, to 
drink evenings. To this Mr. Seely offered no objections, he, 
with others, considering it a harmless beverage. 

When bringing the cider home in the black jug—which had 


[ 112 ] 


Self Denial or Defeat 


served so many purposes for the family—the boys would often 
stop on their way and regale themselves from its contents. 
They called it “collecting express charges.” Great was their 
glee, as they laughed and wrestled around the jug, nor did it 
enter their minds that harm would come to them or others from 
drinking what the jug contained. After listening to Dr. 
Leonard, Walter recalled an incident that followed the bringing 
of the last cider from Mr. Steele’s. He remembered it did not 
have that rich, soft taste it possessed when first made, but 
rather produced a sharp, prickly sensation in his throat. He 
remembered also hearing the men say it was getting “hard.” 

Clarence Farnsworth, who had been on the farm but a short 
time, drank freely of it—helping himself repeatedly, after the 
men had retired and Walter sat reading in another room. On 
the following day he went to Lockwood—on business, he said. 
Returning home at a late hour of the day he retired to his room 
at once, complaining of sickness. At the tea table Rosamond 
excused his absence, but looked sad and anxious and tears 
came unbidden to her eyes. 

When Walter volunteered to go after the physician she assured 
him it would be unnecessary—morning would find him better. 
As all this came rushing through Walter’s mind, since Dr. 
Leonard’s remarks, he became alarmed lest Clarence’s old appe¬ 
tite had been aroused by drinking the cider he and Martin had 
brought from Mr. Steele’s. Hoping to do something yet to 
save him, he hesitated no longer to sign the pledge. Rising in 
his seat in the audience he said: 

“Ladies and gentlemen! I for one like sweet cider, but I 
fear, from what I have heard tonight, that my love for it— 
shared with others—has caused me to put temptation in the 
way of one of my best friends. I fear it will be many days— 
perhaps years—before he will overcome the effects of it; I feel 
it my duty—for his sake, as well as my own—to sign that pledge 
just as it reads.” 

Concluding this, his first temperance address, amid the 
cheers of the people, he proceeded to the platform and signed 
the pledge. Claude Sharon followed him, and nearly every- 


[ 113 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


one present did the same, after which a “Total Abstinence 
Society” was organized and officers elected. 

When the ballot for president was announced, the majority 
had voted for Walter. In vain he plead his extreme youth and 
inexperience as a reason for declining. 

“You must accept it,” said a young lady sitting near him; 
“feeling as you do, you will work and influence other boys to 
sign the pledge and unite with our society.” 

Many hard drinkers and their wives had signed the pledge; 
among the number were Dr. Leonard and his two young 
daughters, the light of a new hope shining in their faces. 

The society increased rapidly in members and a larger hall 
was engaged. Walter confidently solicited the presence of 
Clarence and his father, but the former said, “I fear I cannot 
keep the pledge,” while his father declined to join by saying, 
“I am a strong temperance man and do not need to sign a pledge 
to keep from drinking.” 

Walter was sorely disappointed by their refusals; he wished 
for his father's presence and strong personal influence. He felt 
if Clarence would sign the pledge he could be saved from fur¬ 
ther harm from the cider he brought him. During his brief 
Christian life Walter had felt as deep a desire for the conver¬ 
sion of his family and kindred as he did at this time that they 
actively engage in temperance work. 

Daily he prayed for them, but the path of duty and method 
of following it had not yet been made plain regarding them. 

To his friend, Mr. Harrison—a blacksmith—he confided his 
solicitude—while stopping at his shop on his way to the farm 
at the close of the school week. 

“Walter,” said Mr. Harrison, as he stood beside his forge and 
anvil—his sooty arms folded across his breast—“don’t you 
think you have a special duty you ought to perform when you 
get home tonight?” 

“What duty do you mean, Mr. Harrison?” asked Walter. 

“I think,” he replied, with a smile upon his kindly face, “it 
would do your relatives good and make you a stronger young 
soldier of the cross were you to read a chapter in the Bible 


[ 114 ] 


Self Denial or Defeat 


and pray with them night and morning, and at the table ‘ask 
a blessing.’ I think no piece of furniture is so beautiful and 
helpful in a home as a ‘family altar.’ I am sure Rosamond 
would approve and appreciate it.” 

Walter hesitated to reply, for the suggestion—which he had 
not thought of before with any serious intention—it seemed so 
impractical an idea, so far beyond his strength—now finally 
fastened itself upon his conscience as an imperative and present 
duty. 

“Think it over as you walk homeward,” continued Mr. Har¬ 
rison; “pray for strength to do it. I know your father has great 
confidence in your sincerity—he has told me so.” 

Bidding him goodbye, Walter again started on his way. As 
he came to the river that ran between Lockwood and his home 
he stopped upon the bridge and looked down into the rushing 
stream. He thought of what Mr. Harrison had said and felt 
he ought to do it; but how propose it? If Rosamond would 
ask him to perform the service, it would be easier, for she was 
now mistress of the home; he felt sure she would not object, but 
would his father or Clarence consent? or, if not objecting, 
would they take pleasure in it? He felt almost displeased with 
Mr. Harrison for suggesting the duty to him. 

After supper was over at home—and he had played awhile 
with Rosamond’s children before their mother put them in 
bed—he went out into the yard; he walked among the trees 
that were just beginning to bud and blossom. 

Deeply impressed with a sense of duty also of fear and weak¬ 
ness, he knelt and prayed for strength, and that the minds of 
the family might be prepared for his proposal. Great was his 
relief and joy when they each readily consented. 

He selected the chapter beginning, “Let not your heart be 
troubled,” which Mr. Vinton read at the funeral service of his 
mother; Rosamond remembered it; her tears flowed while 
Walter read. He knelt and prayed, with a heart overflowing 
with peace and joy, while the others listened with bowed 
heads. 

As Rosamond bade him good night, with her arms about his 


[ 115 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


neck—her eyes still filled with tears—she thanked him for the 
helpful prayer and reading. 

Walter could scarcely fall asleep when he retired, so great was 
his happiness. He had borne his heaviest cross and found his 
greatest blessing since becoming a Christian. When next he 
saw Mr. Harrison, and declared his gratitude for having had 
his path of duty so plainly marked for him, his friend expressed 
his pleasure that a duty made known had been performed so 
promptly, being full of promised good to himself and others. 

Mr. Harrison then inquired of Walter if he would like to be a 
soldier, providing his father would give his consent. 

“I would gladly enlist if I was old enough to be accepted and 
if father is willing,” he replied. 

“I will ask him,” said Mr. Harrison; “I am raising a company. 
Claude and others whom you know are intending to go and we 
shall be pleased to have you with us.” 

With great reluctance, yet constrained by a true spirit of 
loyalty to his country in her hour of increasing need of men, Mr. 
Seely consented to Walter’s enlistment. 

The hour of parting with him was even sadder to Rosamond 
and her father than when Edward went to the war. Its dangers 
and horrors had begun to be but faintly realized then. All 
were excited and in confident expectation that the struggle w T ould 
soon be over. Each soldier was eager to experience something 
of it before it came to an end. Now all was changed. Since 
Edward went aw-ay many noble men had fallen; others had 
hastened to take their places; still the call came for more. 

The best and strongest young men in the North had already 
gone into the ranks of the Union army. Only those who were 
very young—mere boys, like Walter—and others past middle 
life, with families dependent on them, remained to answer to 
the call. 

Walter’s stature was up to the standard of military require¬ 
ments, although his age—not yet sixteen—was far short of the 
age limit. His size, however, secured his acceptance and he, 
with others, w 7 as mustered in and marched away 

Edw 7 ard was still a prisoner of w 7 ar, languishing in a southern 


[ 116 ] 


Self Denial or Defeat 


prison. Her mother’s death; anxious concern on account of 
the increasing power of strong drink on Clarence; Walter’s 
absence—all combined to fill Rosamond’s heart with bitterest 
sorrow. 

“Will I ever see my two absent brothers again?” was a 
question that filled her mind with gloomy forebodings each time 
she asked it of herself. Martin alone remained to cheer and 
help her. Her father was away, having begun his travels about 
the time Walter left for the seat of war. 

To the young soldier this new kind of living was all so strange, 
at times almost dreamlike, to be away from home; to sleep in a 
small white tent, so low he must enter it on hands and knees; 
to sleep, rolled up in rubber and coarse woolen blankets for bed¬ 
clothes—the ground for a bedstead, the boom of a cannon at 
sunrise, to awaken him, or a bugle blast to call him to breakfast; 
food prepared in large iron kettles and eaten from tin dishes; 
huge, hard crackers, in place of bread—these were all so novel 
and unlike home life he could not help enjoying the fascinating 
change. 

Instead of school or farm work after breakfast, if not on the 
march, the order came for guard duty or exercise in drilling. 

The first camp—at the edge of a beautiful city overlooking a 
broad river—on ground where a terrible battle had been fought 
a few days before the arrival of his regiment—presented scenes 
illustrating the ravages of war. 

Cannons standing among pyramids of shot and shell; others 
with broken wheels and otherwise disabled; stately buildings 
demolished or pierced by shot and shell; long rows of graves, so 
shallow as to barely cover the dead—these and much more 
awakened in Walter’s young mind a query, “Why men of ma¬ 
ture judgment and experience could not come to an amicable 
understanding and settlement of differences, in a manner more 
humane—to say nothing of Christian duty. 

To him also came another surprise in the conduct of many of 
his comrades—not only those who were young, like himself— 
but men of riper years, who, under the guise of social and civil 
disorder caused by war, justified or at least allowed themselves 


[ 117 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


to engage in unwarrantable indulgences with the person and 
property of men and women, whether friend or foe. Intem¬ 
perance was all too common among officers and men. Gambling 
and profanity prevailed on all sides. 

Young men, with the beardlessness of boyhood, the imprint 
of kisses from loving mothers and sisters, hardly gone from their 
cheeks and lips, he often saw wild with the frenzy of strong 
drink; he heard them pouring forth torrents of profanity and 
vile maledictions, until borne aw T av and placed in the guard 
house, to await courtmartial and punishment. 

The next Walter saw' of one of these—but little older than 
himself, with fine form, hair curled and raven black—was 
before the regiment wffien on dress parade. 

The sun w T as setting, wffien a squad marched slowly before the 
long line of blue, conducting the condemned comrade to an 
empty barrel standing in the center of the parade ground. The 
musicians played “the rogues march;” at the w T ord of command 
he climbed upon the barrel; a ripple of laughter ran along the 
ranks, bursting into uproarious shouts, wffien the barrel head 
gave w T ay and the disgraced soldier sank to his w'aist in the empty 
shell, wffiere he w T as left standing, while his comrades marched 
back to their quarters. 

Walter could not laugh at his comrade’s dishonor. The 
appearance of the bloodshot eyes and downcast looks touched 
his heart w r ith pity; he prayed for him that he might never 
yield to his appetite again. 

“Can I stand up against all this temptation?” was the ques¬ 
tion Walter asked himself often in deep solicitude. 

He examined his heart daily. Earnestly he prayed, as he 
stood alone at the midnight hour on picket duty—alone w T ith 
his God and his gun—guarding the camp wffiere lay his sleeping 
comrades. His heart went out for Edward also—far aw T ay in 
prison pen—and for those at home. Leaving the camp one day 
he strolled into the woods alone; yet, not alone! Winding his 
way to the depths of a dense thicket he knelt in prayer; he told 
the Lord of his temptations, weakness and danger. 

“Let me die in the camp or on the battlefield, as Thou w r ilt; 


[ 118 ] 


Self Denial or Defeat 


but while I live, help me to live truly Thine;” such was his 
prayer. Peace and joy filled his heart; he seemed to be carried 
out and beyond himself, calm in the assurance that he should 
return to his home with a reputation and character as un¬ 
tarnished as when he left it. 

Returning to the camp, he wrote Rosamond a letter, in which 
he bade her be brave and keep a cheerful heart, for he believed 
Edward and he would both live and return to her again. 

When, at midnight—after this day so full of rich experience— 
a sudden attack upon the picket line called the soldiers from 
their tents, he was surprised but not alarmed; he knew in whom 
he trusted; nor did he sense aught of fear, as a rolling volley of 
musketry and the quick words of command brought the various 
companies, double quick, into regimental line of battle and the 
attack was repulsed. 

Most deeply impressive at the time, an event that lingered 
longest in his memory was the burial of a comrade. No loved 
one nigh, to place a flower, or shed a tear. The muffled drum, 
the slow march to the grave—dug on the hillside in the shadows 
of the forest—to bear a mark or monument, or to be lost and 
forgotten, it mattered naught to him whom his comrades left 
sleeping there—much to someone far away, who would wait in 
vain his homecoming. To Walter ever came the thought 
that, however grand its pageantry, or beneficent its results, war 
is nothing short of a waste of noble life and manhood—a system 
of murder, legalized by force alone. 


[ 119 ] 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


College and Callings. 

Mr. Seely had returned from his eastern visit. Martin, hav¬ 
ing completed another year in the district school, was assisting 
Clarence Farnsworth on the farm. 

For many months no tidings had been received from Edw^ard, 
and grave fears were entertained that he was numbered among 
the many who had succumbed to the confinement and exposures 
of prison life. 

The summer passed and autumn came. The skies were se¬ 
rene and calm over the beautiful southern land—almost an 
Eden but for the blight of slavery and the devastations of war. 

The frosts of approaching winter were being felt throughout 
the North, when the regiment to which Walter belonged was 
ordered to Chicago, to be mustered out of service, the term of 
enlistment having expired. 

Mr. Seely came to meet his son. Bidding his comrades fare¬ 
well—especially reluctant to leave his captain and the chap¬ 
lain, who had been exceedingly kind to him—he accompanied 
his father to Lockwood and the joyful welcome that awaited 
him at home on the farm. 

Rosamond’s greeting possessed the warmth of a mother’s 
love—for such she was to him. Her children were delighted 
with his stories and the toys he brought them. 

To Martin he recited some of his experiences as “a soldier 
boy.” 

“Did you kill any rebels, Walter?” asked Martin, as if awed 
with the thought of his brother having been where he held the 
life or death of others in his hands. 

“I hope not, Martin,” he replied. “No true soldier wants to 
know for sure he has caused the death even of an enemy; we 


[ 120 ] 



College and Callings 


fought, not to kill, but for victory; to win that, many had to 
die. While on duty I saw a man crossing the line, contrary to or¬ 
ders ; concluding he was one of the many spies that were making 
us so much trouble I ordered him twice to halt; I leveled my gun 
at him and called more loudly, halt ; as he continued moving 
rapidly and farther away I felt I must fire at him; as I was in 
good practice and he was moving in a straight line from me— 
although at long range—I was positive I would kill or wound 
him. A strange sensation of horror thrilled me; I felt sick at 
heart; my left arm lost its power and dropped to my side, letting 
my gun swing on my finger by the trigger guard until the muzzle 
rested on the ground. Some of my comrades rushed up to take 
my gun and try to stop the man. That aroused me to my 
duty and I refused their help; again bracing myself, taking a 
determined, deadly aim, I cried once more ‘halt’ and was be¬ 
ginning to press the trigger when, moved by some unknown in¬ 
fluence, he stopped, threw up his arms, came back to the picket 
line and surrendered. In the heat of battle, when bullets are 
flying, and shells shrieking through the air, a soldier seldom 
knows the effects of the bullets fired from his single gun, hence 
he is saved the harrowing thought that would haunt him all his 
life, ‘I have killed a man.’ ” 

“I am glad that rebel surrendered before you shot him,” said 
Martin. 

“Yes, I am also,” remarked Walter, and smiling, added, “it 
was very kind of him to be so considerate of my lifelong feelings.” 

“What do you think of the southern people, my son,” asked 
Mr. Seely. 

“As a whole, they are a hospitable people, father,” Walter 
answered; “but, of course, those who were friendly to us dared 
not express their feelings openly and our enemies would not 
show friendship. Ignorance of themselves and us led them into 
the war and prejudice will keep them there as long as they can 
hold out. One could not help pitying them, especially the 
women and children, reduced from wealth to poverty—plenty to 
starvation. This generation must suffer, but the next will be 
the better for it. 


[ 121 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“I must tell you an experience I had in Paducah, Kentucky, 
which, while it w T as amusing to our men, seemed very sad to 
me. An order came from the provost marshal for a detail to 
be sent to arrest Judge C-and bring him to headquar¬ 

ters. The detail was to be made from our regiment and my 
company. I was selected. You can imagine what a formidable 
appearance I made—my boyish looks, my beardless face—no 
wonder the officers and men laughed and guyed me as I left the 
camp and proceeded to the city. Presenting myself at the door 
of the stately mansion of the Judge—holding my gun in one 
hand and the order of arrest in the other—I banged the mam¬ 
moth lion head knocker on the door, which was soon opened 
by a colored servant. A gray haired, motherly looking woman, 
resembling Aunt Carrie, appeared. 

“Glancing at me, then at my gun, as I asked for the Judge, she 
became very pale and frightened. ‘What do you want him 
for?’ she asked with trembling voice, while her eyes were filled 
with tears. Just then the Judge appeared in the hall. I read 
the ‘order of arrest’ to him and asked him to prepare at once 
to go with me. Soon the hall was filled with his family—the 
colored servants ringing their hands and crying wildly: ‘Oh, 
for de Lawd’s sake! Massa Judge is you gwine to be hung or 
shot?’ 

“He tried patiently to quiet them as best he could; I also 
assured his wife and the rest that I hardly thought he would be 
harshly treated. 

“The Judge looked at me over his spectacles—holding his 
newspaper in his hand; his dignified, portly bearing was so in 
contrast to my youthful appearance he doubtless felt as Goliath 
did when he saw David coming to fight with him. I detected 
an amused expression on his face as the Judge exclaimed: 

‘ Well, youngster! you are rather a young specimen of a soldier 
to arrest me; but I don’t like the looks of that gun and bayonet; 
in the hands of hoys such things go off accidentally sometimes.’ 

“There is not very much of me —in size or age— I admit, your 
honor,” I replied; “but the whole Federal army and govern¬ 
ment are back of me and my gun.” 


[ 122 ] 



College and Callings 


‘I suppose so,’ he remarked in a sarcastic tone, ‘and you 
‘Lincoln hirelings’ will not allow a man to say his name is his 
own any more.’ 

“As he called for his hat and cane, I told his wife not to worry, 
for he could doubtless give bonds for his future appearance and 
return in a short time. 

“Ordering him a few paces in front of me, I marched him 
down to the office of the provost marshal; many, meeting him 
on the street, inquired anxiously what it meant, to whom he 
made various answers indicating that he regarded himself ‘a 
martyr to the Lincoln government.’ ” 

As the dinner hour was approaching, Rosamond said to 
Walter: “Are you as fond of chickens as you were before you 
went into the army? If so, Martin can kill one and I will cook 
it for dinner.” 

“Indeed, I shall enjoy a change from fat meat and hard 
tack to fried chicken and your good cooking, Rosamond,” 
Walter replied; “I will take my rifle and show Martin how sol¬ 
diers shoot rebel roosters.” 

Tearing a cartridge open with his teeth, as was done in the 
army, he poured the powder into the barrel of his gun and drove 
the bullet down upon it with the ramrod. 

On the way to the barn Martin said to him, “Did you get 
many chickens down South, Walter?” 

“Only a few,” he replied; “several of us boys were out for¬ 
aging and we came to a fine plantation, but found no one there 
and nothing to eat but a few gnarled apples in the orchard until 
the rest of them went to the barn, leaving me in the dooryard. 
Soon I heard the cackling of a hen and the banging of guns, as 
they chased her around the buildings; she escaped them all and 
came through the fence where I was standing; I caught her, 
wrung off her head and dropped her into my haversack just as 
her pursuers came up to find me calmly waiting for them. 

“Where is she, Seely?” they inquired. 

“Where is who or what?” I asked in a surprised manner. 
At that instant one of them saw the head lying on the grass— 
still gaping and winking—and they made a rush to take the 


[ 123 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


game from me; we compromised the matter, however, by my 
agreeing to dress and cook her and invite them all to supper, on 
chicken soup, hard tack and apple sauce. 

Martin laughed heartily at the incident and pointed out a 
fine fowl for a test of Walter’s marksmanship. 

“I must not shoot him through the body with this one ounce 
rifle ball, or there will be nothing left but his comb and tail 
feathers,” said Walter. 

Martin concluded the rebel spy would not have escaped had 
Walter fired at him, for, when the report of the gun and the 
powder smoke had passed away, the chicken’s head was as 
cleanly cut from his now fluttering body as if done with a sharp 
axe. 

As the days passed, so full of comfort and pleasure otherwise, 
Walter could but observe the marked change that had come to 
Clarence—a change as of one who had been engaged in a severe 
struggle for mastery over some enemy or danger and had been 
defeated. Toward Rosamond and the children he manifested 
no harsh unkindness, but an inattention, born of selfish personal 
indulgence. Her unheeded cautions when he went to Lock- 
wood—her anxious expression when he returned, told—only too 
well—she had seen that which gave her just grounds for anxiety. 

To Walter he was kind and considerate, promptly encour¬ 
aging him to resume his custom of prayer and Bible reading in 
the home circle. Sunday found the horses and carriage at his 
service to convey Rosamond to church, from which, however, 
he excused himself on the plea of weariness after the labor of the 
week—preferring also to care for the children at home. His 
first-born son—a frail, sweet-mannered boy—was a “shining 
mark, whom death loved” and called early. The shadows of 
evening were falling when the end came. Lying in his father’s 
arms his plaintive moans ceased; with a smile of recognition he 
looked into the faces of those bending over him, then the beau¬ 
tiful house of clay was vacant—the occupant gone to dwell 
in a fairer home, in a healthier clime. In her grief Rosamond 
drew near the Saviour and began to know His helpful comfort. 

Finding Clarence in his room alone, bitterly weeping, Walter 


[ 124 ] 


College and Callings 

said to him: “ Do you not believe your child better off in heaven 
than here?” 

“Yes, Walter,” he replied, “but it is hard to give him up; 
harder still to understand why he need be taken from me.” 

“It may be,” said Walter, “the Lord is calling you to Himself 
and His service by this affliction. He will make it result in 
your good if you fully trust Him.” 

“When I try to think one good thought,” said Clarence— 
almost in a tone of despair—“fifty thousand wicked thoughts 
drive the good one away; I greatly need your prayers, Walter.” 

The second day following the child’s death dawned under 
heavy clouds, pouring incessant rain upon the earth. The 
gloomy state of nature added disappointment to the grief of 
Rosamond and Clarence. Seeing this, Walter went to his room 
and, remembering the prayer of Elijah, that “it might not rain,” 
he prayed that the clouds might be locked up until the funeral 
was over. 

Three times that morning he entered his secret place of 
prayer in the same behalf; still the clouds did not pass away— 
but the rain ceased to fall; nor did it begin again until after the 
service in the church had afforded all great comfort and the 
little form had been laid to rest, then—when all were at home 
again—the clouds melted, rain falling in copious showers far 
into the night. 

Thereby Walter’s faith in the ever helpful guiding hand of 
God in human affairs was greatly strengthened. As he read, 
“the steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord, and he de- 
lighteth in his way,” he noted the conditions on which Divine 
guidance may be expected in small things as well as in greater 
events in life, and vowed to seek a growth in goodness of heart 
as he grew in knowledge, years and stature. 

As the war was still in progress—more soldiers being called 
into the field—his inclination to reenlist was very strong; but 
to his father’s twofold counsel he deferred—first, inasmuch as 
he had shown his loyalty and courage by enlisting once, and as 
Edward’s return was now doubtful, he asked Walter to spare 
him the heartache of seeing him reenlist unless sternest neces- 


[ 125 ] 


College and Callings 


sity required it; then lie would make the sacrifice; until then, he 
counselled him to enter college. 

Thus far Walter had revealed to no one—except Aunt Car¬ 
rie—the line of duty he felt impressed should be his life work— 
although Rosamond and many Christian friends had surmised 
it. 

Not knowing his father’s intentions in thus affording him an 
opportunity for higher education, he felt it his duty to inform 
him of his convictions. 

It was Sabbath morning; they were walking toward Lock- 
wood to attend church together—a rare occurrence. The 
late autumn sun gave a tint of gold and crimson to the grass, 
and flowers and foliage seared by the frost. Occasionally they 
heard the notes of birds that were still lingering before taking 
their southern flight. Now T and then a cricket—warmed by 
the sun’s rays—had crept upon some faded twig, to sound forth 
what—seemingly—must have been its funeral dirge. A melan¬ 
choly—sad, but sweet and peaceful—seemed to pervade the 
very air. While they were walking leisurely along, Mr. Seely 
had told Walter some of his plans concerning his college course. 

Knowing, as he did, wherein he had come to differ from his 
father’s religious views and experience, he felt it would not be 
just nor honorable to accept his generous proposals without 
acquainting him with his sense of duty, hence he said: 

“Perhaps, father, you will not wish to do as you propose 
when I inform you fully what use I wish to make of the educa¬ 
tion I may acquire.” 

“As to that, my son,” his father replied, “I wish you to qualify 
yourself for some business or profession by which you can earn 
an ample and honest livelihood. I shall give Rosamond the 
east farm and buildings for a Christmas gift; if Edw’ard comes 
back to us, the west farm is to be his. Judging you would pre¬ 
fer an education, and”—with a merry twinkle in his eyes— 
“you are not ‘cut out’ for a farmer—I will do as much for you 
in that way as I intend to do for each of them. 

“Martin will remain with Clarence and Rosamond; after a 
few years I will give him an outfit and put him in charge of the 


[12G] 



College and Callings 

homestead. I do not fear but you will make a proper use of 
your privileges.” 

After walking some distance in silence—with great effort to 
control his emotions—so heavy a cross was the confession he 
was about to make—Walter said: “I have felt, father, before, 
and still more since mother left us, I ought to prepare to preach 
the gospel. Knowing how much our views on religious questions 
differ, I have not advised you of it heretofore. I trust, however, 
my intentions will not displease you.” 

His suspense was as great while awaiting his father’s reply 
as his surprise and joy were when his father said, with trembling 
voice and moistened eyes: 

“I would rather educate you for a minister, my son, than have 
you choose a course such as thousands of other young men are 
pursuing; I will gladly assist you in carrying out your convic¬ 
tions and beliefs.” 

A new feeling of confidence in and firm reliance upon his 
father sprang up in Walter’s heart then and there such as he 
had never felt before. He perceived anew that, beneath his 
father’s calm reserve, there existed not only w T arm paternal 
feelings, but that he depended on deeds more than on words for 
the expression of religious convictions. While sitting in church 
that morning Walter could not prevent his mind wandering from 
the sermon, on into the future with all its possibilities. 

Rosamond entered with a loving ambition into her brother’s 
plans. The great theme—uppermost in his mind—while sel¬ 
dom referred to, was coming to be well understood and approved 
by her. His presence and daily prayers in her home afforded 
her large relief from the growing anxiety that preyed upon her 
mind. 

The distance to the college would admit of such frequent re¬ 
turns home, the prospective separation had less of sadness in it. 

A mile from Mr. Seely’s was the farm house of Mr. Frisbie. 
His oldest son, Carrol, had been a playmate and intimate com¬ 
panion to Walter since Mr. Seely first moved into the present 
home. Together they had wandered over the wide prairies— 
afoot or on horseback—in search of their father’s cows. They 


[ 127 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


sat in the same seat in school much of the time and recited in 
the same classes. Each had been occasionally permitted by 
his parents to spend a night at the other’s home, which were 
always times of great enjoyment, spent in studying lessons, 
reading or telling stories or riddles, popping corn, cracking nuts 
and similar diversions. 

When Carroll’s mother and infant brother died, Walter accom¬ 
panied his parents to the double funeral, as sympathetic 
neighbors. 

While the procession moved slowly toward the cemetery he 
cast many glances toward his mother; he trembled as he asked 
himself the question, “What could I do w T ere she to be taken 
away as Carroll’s mother has been?” 

Little he imagined how soon the fear would be a sad reality. 
It was then Carroll came—among the many—to speak words 
of sympathy. Entering the room, where Walter was standing 
alone, extending his hand, he said: “I did not expect, Walter, 
I should be called upon so soon to offer my sympathies in return 
for your kindness when the sorrow came to my home that has 
visited you and yours.” 

For some time they stood with clasped hands and wept in 
silence. Each could understand full well how deep was the 
sorrow of the other, yet by it their hearts were cemented with 
a more lasting bond of friendship. 

It was no small satisfaction to these two motherless boys— 
just merging into young manhood—when their fathers arranged 
to send them to college together. 

Mounted on their fathers’ best saddle horses they rode 
gayly across the country to the college town of Plainwell—the 
tall church spires of which could be seen in the distance from 
Walter’s home. 

Arriving there they were directed to the home of Mrs. Wel¬ 
lington, to arrange for rooms and board. They found her a 
cheerful, elderly wddow with an only child—a grown daughter— 
and an adopted girl of fourteen years. 

The following week Mr. Seely took the boys and their be¬ 
longings to Mrs. Wellington’s and saw them installed in their 


[ 128 ] 


College and Callings 


new surroundings—pleasantly charging their hostess to “watch 
the boys and keep them out of mischief.” 

“You will come home often, Walter,” said Rosamond, while 
assisting him in packing his trunk. “I shall be so lost without 
you. When you are away and we sit down at the table it seems 
as if something was lacking—to eat without a ‘blessing’ being 
asked. I hope to see the day when Clarence or father will 
feel it in their hearts to be a duty and pleasure to do so.” 

“Yes, Rosamond,” Walter replied, “I shall want to come 
often. I feel as if I was beginning to break away from the 
home moorings, to launch upon the sea of life in earnest. I 
want a snug harbor to anchor in, and I shall always feel—as 
long as you are here—that I am welcome. I know it will 
always be safe to steer for the light in this lighthouse.” 

Rosamond smiled as Walter finished this nautical figure and 
locked his trunk, which contained so many tokens of his sister’s 
love. 

The new order of living at Mrs. Wellington’s differed some¬ 
what from Rosamond’s and was full of interest to Walter. So 
recent had been his army life, he often dreamed of being 
awakened for “roll call” or “picket duty.” As he awoke and 
found himself surrounded by tokens of peace and safety he 
thanked his Heavenly Father and prayed for the soldiers still in 
the field. 

The new school life now offered Walter and his friend, un¬ 
folded to the boys wider views of intellectual growth and 
knowledge than had been presented to them before. The con¬ 
trast was very great between the country school and the study 
and recitation of lessons by scores of pupils in the large college 
building, or the quiet study in their private rooms. 


[ 129 ] 


CHAPTER XIX. 


College and Callings.— Continued. 

Walter recalled the college life of many great men, whose 
biographies he had read, who, struggling against poverty, by 
dint of will and perseverance, had graduated with honor; rising 
from obscurity some had won lasting fame as statesmen, au¬ 
thors, divines, or had filled other important places among men. 
He was thankful to be exempted from the struggle for a liveli¬ 
hood by his father’s provision of means, needing, as he did, 
every hour for study. 

He had neither time nor disposition to engage in the esca¬ 
pades and boisterous, unmanly sports of which he had heard or 
read as being practiced by college boys. Carroll—his room¬ 
mate—with his high moral sense—looked with the same con¬ 
tempt on rude revelry and waste of time. Upon one subject, 
however, they differed, as their fathers had differed. 

Mr. Frisbie shared the views advanced by Mr. Steele, his 
neighbor, relative to the war and its issues. He had formed 
his opinion largely from the literature he had read. Carroll, 
having read the same to some extent, and listened to his con¬ 
versation, had adopted his father’s opinions—that slavery, as 
an institution, should not be interfered with by the govern¬ 
ment, claiming the slaves were an inferior, incapable race, 
unfit for any other condition. Walter had shared his father’s 
opinions, at first, with possibly no better show of reason than 
governed Carroll—“like father, like son”—until he entered 
the army; then he had reasons of his own for his views concern¬ 
ing slavery and the possibilities of the slaves under freedom. 

“There,” said he to Carroll one evening after study hours, 
“I saw the emancipated slaves—tens of thousands—men, 
women and children, all ages and complexions; ebony black or 


[ 130 ] 



College and Callings ( Continued) 


with faces white and features so truly Caucasian I could scarcely 
discern a trace of negro blood. I conversed with many of them; 
I soon discovered such a longing for freedom among them, I was 
fired with a determination to fight and die for them, if neces¬ 
sary, if their return to bondage could be prevented only by so 
doing.” 

“So great was the desire of the slaves for freedom that they 
took great risks of being severely punished for trying to escape 
from bondage. 

“Many found their way across the border states to Canada 
over the “Underground Railway”—a secret society formed to 
assist slaves to obtain their freedom. 

“Your friend, Mr. Hazen, was an agent in Plainwell. 

“The escaped slaves would be brought here in the night from 
some other “station” and kept secretly until Mr. Rogers could 
take them to Chicago after dark in his covered market wagon, 
covered over with straw and grain or light vegetables. 

“Maud has told me Mr. Wellington was also an agent; 
often when she woke in the morning she would hear someone 
moving about in the attic; her mother would tell her some 
runaway slave, or a black mother and her children who were 
to be sold away from her and each other over in Missouri or 
Kentucky had escaped and had been brought in the night to 
their house; she was solemnly charged not to breathe a word 
about them at school or to anyone. 

“She said she could not keep from crying in sympathy for 
them as she remembered how she felt when she was left without 
a mother and was separated from her brother and sister, to be 
adopted here, which was nothing sad, compared with the black 
children being separated and sold to strangers. 

“Owen Lovejoy, the celebrated abolitionist, often came to 
Plainwell to lecture on slavery; he was entertained by Mr. 
Wellington and his family. So great was their admiration and 
love for him, Mrs. Wellington named her youngest son Owen 
Lovejoy. 

“If they remain free it will not be long until those who love 
the negroes so much will want to marry them; they will be scat- 


031 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


tered all over the land and the country will be filled with the 
mixed races; I, for one, do not believe in it,” said Carroll, with 
a considerable display of bitterness in his tone of voice. 

“I should regret seeing the races mixed any more than at 
present, but I think you are mistaken, Carroll,” said Walter. 

“It will be an easy matter, while making laws to fix the status 
of the freed slaves, to make a law to prevent the races inter¬ 
marrying. Here let me ask, can you explain how so many 
who were lately slaves came to have such light complexions? 
Were their mother's married to white men?” 

“Of course not,” said Carroll, coloring deeply as the truth 
flashed upon his mind. 

“Well, then,” continued Walter, “if they are freed and are 
made citizens, with laws forbidding intermarriage with the 
white race, and unchastity be punished, as adultery and licen¬ 
tiousness are—or should be—would not the amalgamation of 
the races cease?” 

“But they are such a degraded, ignorant set,” said Carroll, 
contemptuously. 

“Yes. they are; more degraded and ignorant than you realize 
or I ever imagined until I went South among them,” Walter 
said in reply. “But,” he added, “they are simple and sincere; 
such prayers as I heard them make would melt a heart of stone; 
their singing—well, I cannot describe it. I soon discovered 
that through these two channels alone they had received and 
found means of expressing what little happiness came into their 
crushed hearts and lives.” 

“But I do not believe it is right or just to arm them to fight 
against their former masters,” said Carroll; “that is ‘adding 
insult to injury.’ ” 

“That is just what their former masters say,” remarked 
Walter, good naturedly, “but they do make good soldiers, 
Carroll! Their long subjection made them quick to obey dis¬ 
cipline; then they are fighting for themselves. If this war had 
to be and they are the ones to reap the main benefits, why not let 
them have a share in the great conflict going on between their 
white brothers in their behalf?” 


College and Callings ( Continued ) 


After a long pause, Walter—seeing with what displeasure 
Carroll received what he had expressed by way of argument— 
said to him: “I want to make a proposition.” 

“What is it?” asked Carroll, hotly. 

“It is this,” said Walter; “you and I do not think alike on 
political subjects; we have been too good friends to allow any 
hard words or feelings to come between us; I propose we do not 
discuss such questions with each other hereafter. What do 
you say?” 

“Agreed,” said Carroll, after a moment’s reflection; he then 
arose and crossed the room to Walter. They shook hands and 
during the time they remained at college—and ever after— 
their attachment remained unchanged; but they discussed no 
political questions with each other. 

The daily intercourse which they enjoyed with learned pro¬ 
fessors and hundreds of young men and women, incited them to 
greatest diligence, affording them also certain social privileges 
they needed. 

Like themselves, most of the students were farmers’ sons or 
daughters, and brought with them a rugged deportment, which 
the new associations transformed into personal refinement. 

“What are you preparing yourself for, Carroll?” Mrs. Wel¬ 
lington inquired of him one evening, while seated at the tea 
table, and added, “Young men generally have some special 
object in view when entering college.” 

“He looks as though he might become a physician,” re¬ 
marked Mrs. Wellington’s daughter. 

“No,” said Walter, “he could not be a physician; he cannot 
stand the sight of blood. He was at my home once when mother 
sent me to the barn to get a fowl for dinner. Carroll caught it 
and scratched his hand on the rooster’s spur. I put the fowl 
in a box, then turned to look at Carroll’s wound; there he 
stood, pale as a ghost and ready to faint. I led him to the 
house; while mother was assisting me to bathe his head with 
camphor the chicken got out of the box and ran under the barn, 
so we had no fowl for dinner.” 

“He is what I should call chicken-hearted,” said Maud— 


[ 133 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

Mrs. Wellington’s adopted daughter—after the laughter that 
had greeted Walter’s remarks had subsided. 

“But you have been interrupted in answering my question,” 
said Mrs. Wellington to Carroll. 

“My education must be miscellaneous, for general purposes,” 
was his reply, adding, “I shall remain a farmer or engage in mer¬ 
cantile pursuits. If you want a ‘professional’ for a boarder, 
Walter will answer that description; he expects to be a minister.” 

“I am very glad to hear it, Walter,” said Mrs. Wellington, 
“although I supposed you were intending to be a lawyer, as 
you were a soldier and seem well informed and interested on 
political questions.” 

“Before I became a church member I was ambitious to be¬ 
come a lawyer and obtain fame and wealth, but when I became a 
Christian my mind underwent a complete change,” was Walter’s 
simple reply. 

“Do you not think a man can be a lawyer and a Christian 
at the same time?” asked Mrs. Wellington. 

“I do not see why he might not,” he replied; “but ministers 
and lawyers work for different ends and use different means. I 
I believe a man is called of God to preach the Gospel and should 
joyfully obey the call, even at a sacrifice. 

“The law has many emoluments which the ministry has 
not; it also has a great many temptations—especially to skep¬ 
ticism and intemperance.” 

“I told my son as much when he entered college,” said Mrs. 
Wellington, as an expression of sadness took the place of smiles 
upon her face. “He was about the age of Carroll and very 
studious—very ambitious. He was not a professed Christian 
then, although he became one shortly after entering college. 
His young friend and roommate—Glenn Hadden—who was 
working his own way in the world—has since risen to eminence 
as a lawyer and statesman. 

“As I listened to their plans, while they talked of success and 
greatness, I reminded them that life is uncertain and fame 
brings great temptations. 

“But it was not my son’s destiny to reap earthly fame, nor 


[ 134 ] 


College and Callings ( Continued) 


fall before the world’s temptations. He soon sank under the 
strain to which he subjected himself at college. I reached his 
bedside only in time to receive his parting look of recognition, 
then brought his remains to be laid where they are quietly rest¬ 
ing by the side of his father and brother in our Plainwell ceme¬ 
tery. It was sore grief and disappointment to me, but it—no 
doubt—is all for the best.” 

The gathering darkness hid the tears that fell from her eyes, 
as she finished the sad recital; rising from the table the family 
followed her from the dining room. 

At the chapel services in the college building Walter met 
many students who had been his comrades in the army. Some 
had not laid aside all the vivacity of a soldier, nor donned all 
the garb of a citizen nor the dignity which—in Walter’s 
thought—became a student. 

A joke—perpetrated by one of the ex-soldiers upon a fellow 
student, who had not “donned his country’s colors,” to Walter’s 
idea would bear comparison with many college boy’s tricks of 
which he had heard or read; while not really hurtful to the 
victim it was quite amusing to his fellow students. Having 
never been in a southern climate he was wholly unacquainted 
with the nature of the persimmon—a fruit indigenous to the 
South. The ex-soldier brought some home with him, in their 
green, puckery stage, as mementos of many practical jokes suf¬ 
fered or perpetrated by himself in the army. One of these he 
gave—with lavish praise of the delicious quality of the ripened 
fruit—to the student who was about to be his opponent in a 
debate in the college chapel before the students and faculty. 
He began to eat the persimmon just as his name was called to 
open the discussion. 

Taking his place upon the platform he tried to speak; so 
puckered and contorted were his tongue and lips by the bitter 
morsel he had eaten, he found himself unable to articulate his 
words. Amid the titterings of the students he stammered out 
his explanations to the faculty as to the cause of his failure, 
then retreated from the platform amid a deafening applause, in 
which even the professors could not refrain from joining. 


[ 135 ] 


Chronicles of a Far in House 


The perpetrator of the joke, however, was doomed to meet a 
speedy and self-imposed retaliation. Appointed by the faculty 
to deliver an oration at an approaching demonstration, inflated 
with pride by the honor conferred upon him, he prepared and 
approached the eventful occasion with perfect confidence. 
After an introduction by the college president and the burst of 
applause that greeted his appearance had subsided, he stood 
speechless for a moment before a breathless audience. By a 
strange lapse of memory his oration had vanished, leaving his 
mind a blank. After a few futile efforts to grapple with his 
subject he rushed from the platform. Hastening to his father’s 
barn he harnessed a horse; hitching him to a carriage he drove 
to Juliet and did not return for many days to his home and 
class rooms. 

For a few years Walter had suffered the bodily pain and in¬ 
convenience of impaired eyesight, which he could but feel was 
a just retribution for former parental disobedience and violation 
of nature’s laws. 

Before entering Sunday school he had taken no interest in 
Bible reading and the house contained no books interesting 
him, aside from those he studied, until the trustees purchased 
the library for the district school near his home. 

Until them he and his brothers had recourse to the cheap, 
sensational literature to be purchased at the news stands in 
Lockwood—for a few pennies a copy—covered with yellow 
wrappers and illustrated with numerous cuts of scenes of 
murder and debauchery. 

These Walter read with an absorbing interest, while wild 
fancies shaped themselves in his boyish mind of feats of daring 
and bloodshed, of which he was to be the hero. At first, he 
was advised by his mother to discontinue reading such books 
—then forbidden. So great was his fascination and the habit of 
reading so strongly formed that he felt he could not deny him¬ 
self the pleasure of their perusal; therefore, he took them to the 
field or barn, reading them when out of sight, or placing them 
under his pillow would relight his candle after his parents had 
retired, and read as long as the candle continued to burn or the 


[ 136 ] 


College and Callings ( Continued) 


chapter or book remained unread. At length his eyes yielded 
to the unnatural strain; his vision became permanently impaired, 
often requiring the discontinuance of his studies for many con¬ 
secutive weeks. At such times he bitterly censured himself for 
his lack of wisdom and for his wrong doing. 

Of all he read during those months and years he could recall 
but little that was helpful; no history, no biography; all was 
fiction, not facts; imaginary, not real. The heroes and heroines 
had been mostly base and vile; their methods vitiating, often 
disgraceful and criminal. 

Had he been able to recall a tithe of all he had read, it would 
have benefitted him nothing, nor edified others, but memory 
had not been trained to remember. His mind, like an open 
sluiceway, had formed a channel through which the sewage of 
vicious and impure imaginations found free passage, after being 
spread upon the printed page for the perusal of such youth and 
boys as he. He was thankful in after years that he could recall 
no more of it—even wished he could remember less. Unfor¬ 
tunately, after such training of the memory, facts, figures, his¬ 
tory, science, language, and the Scriptures as well—would pass 
from his recollection—after reading or hearing—like water 
through a sieve. His reasoning faculties also had to grow and 
be developed by slow processes, so thoroughly had he revelled in 
that which required no reasoning or reflection. 


[ 137 ] 


CHAPTER XX. 


Alive From the Dead. 

The holidays came and were enjoyed by Walter and Carroll 
at their homes. Rosamond had invited several friends to meet 
Walter, thus making Christmas a day of delight. 

Clarence had never been more kind to him. x4t times he 
appeared more than usually cheerful; again, he seemed lost in 
reverie; his lips would move nervously, his hands and feet 
become restless, his eyes dull; an expression of desire would 
flash over his face, then die away into a look of sickening dread. 
At such times Rosamond would ask him a question, or bring 
one of the children to him to divert his attention from whatever 
engaged his thoughts. Martin and his father had not failed to 
notice his manner. While Mr. Seely made no mention of it, 
Martin told Walter that Clarence was becoming more and more 
addicted to strong drink. Deeply grieved as Walter felt to 
hear it, his sympathies became more active toward his brother- 
in-law and Rosamond, and he resolved to try some specific 
means to save the former from a drunkard’s career and end. 

In the midst of the holiday festivities the name of Edward 
was often upon the lips of one and another. “ If he were only 
here,” was the oft repeated expression. 

Weeks and months had passed since any form of tidings had 
come from him. More than ever the hope of seeing him again 
struggled against the fear that he had perished with the thous¬ 
ands who—in southern prison pens—died, not less nobly for 
their country, but less efficiently, than on the battlefield. 

The winter passed and vacation found Walter again at Rosa¬ 
mond’s accompanied by a classmate. The morning after their 
arrival the warm spring sunshine was so inviting they sauntered 
through garden and orchard where Mr. Seely was trimming 


[ 138 ] 



Alive From The Dead 


apple trees. From the farm house, looking across the fields 
toward Lockwood, they decided to walk in that direction and 
possibly visit the town before returning. Now and then a lark 
or robin flew past them in search of a nesting place, or carrying 
bits of grass or other material, to complete their marvelous 
house building. 

Here and there a violet smiled up at them from among the 
tender grass, as if asking to be picked, and its fragrance inhaled— 
its beauty admired. Collecting each a boquet for himself they 
passed out of the fields and meadows and stood on the brow of 
the hill that overlooked the valley lying betwe en them and 
Lockwood—a mile away on another hillside. 

How many times Walter had stood there in bygone days! 
In the roadway below him his mother one day alighted from the 
carriage to pick up a valuable jewel. She had seen it flashing 
in the sunlight and told her husband, but he laughed and re¬ 
plied, “all is not gold that glistens;” alighting while he held the 
spirited horses she returned a few steps and lifted it out of the 
dust. As no owner was found for it, she wore it upon her neck, 
the only ornament she had cared to possess. 

Under an ample oak, growing on the hillside, Walter and 
Martin had often gathered acorns. From the spring at the 
foot of the hill by the roadside, they had refreshed themselves 
when going to or from Sunday school. Along the banks of the 
river—winding its way down the valley like a silver serpent— 
they had often walked while hunting or fishing. 

Walter mentioned these things to his companion and added, 
“Martin and I may stand here often in the future—together or 
alone but never more as light-hearted, fun-loving boys. 

It —seems but yesterday when, bare-footed, he and I together 
trudged along this road. Whether coming manhood’s days 
will possess the hoped for joys, as boyhood’s hours have been 
filled with them, remains to be seen. 

“You and I, Classmate—while neither men nor boys, too 
old to acknowledge ourselves to be the one, too young to be 
accepted by older heads as the other—are gaining arguments, 
slowly but surely every day—on these fuzzy cheeks, and in 


[ 139 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

these growing statures, to prove we are, at least, the stuff men 
are made of.” 

As their laugh rang out on the morning air, they descended 
the bluff to the road that ran across the valley and river to Lock- 
wood. The morning train from Chicago to Juliet came rushing 
down the valley—the gilded mountings on its engine flashing 
in the sunlight—its comet-like trail of smoke and steam hang¬ 
ing over the cars like a plume; a moment it stopped at the 
depot in Lockwood, then, on through the town—on to Juliet, 
which, though miles away, could be plainly seen down the 
valley toward the South. 

“What a marvel of power and convenience that engine and 
those cars are,” said Walter’s companion. “Shut in as I am 
at Plainwell—our only public conveyance the daily stage—I 
am filled with awe and admiration every time I see a train of 
cars in motion.” 

“Yes, and we are living in an age of wonderful improve¬ 
ments,” said Walter. Just then he cast his eyes along the high¬ 
way before them and saw a lady coming toward them, accom¬ 
panied by a man in soldier's uniform. After gazing at them a 
moment in silence he said, “we shall soon cross the canal as 
we enter town; you will note the contrast between that train of 
cars and the slow motion of the canal boats which, with the 
stage coach, were the main ways of traveling up and down this 
valley until the railroad was constructed.” 

“Ah!” said Walter’s classmate as he, in turn, looked ahead; 
“there comes a soldier; I presume his uniform looks familiar 
to you.” 

“Yes,” said Walter; “I know that lady—a relative, living in 
Lockwood—probably the soldier was a comrade to my brother, 
who has been a prisoner for a long time; not having heard from 
him for many months we fear he is dead. I dread to hear the 
message that soldier may be bringing, yet I long to meet him. 
How my heart throbs with an unaccountable emotion!” added 
Walter, after walking a few rods in silence. 

Approaching within a dozen yards of the lady—his cousin— 
Walter bade her good morning. 


[ 110 ] 




Alive From The Dead 


“What comrade have I there?” he inquired, pointing toward 
the soldier, who had drawn his cap down to hide his face and eyes. 

“Someone you will be glad to see,” she answered, as the sol¬ 
dier looked up, his eyes filled with tears. 

Walter was standing face to face with Edward. 

“Oh, my comrade brother! dead, and alive again!” Walter 
cried, as they threw their arms around each other’s neck and in 
silence wept for joy—words were inadequate to express their 
happiness at this unlooked for meeting. 

After Walter had introduced Edward and his cousin to his 
classmate, he said to him: “You will excuse me, under the cir¬ 
cumstances, for asking that we postpone our visit to Lockwood.” 

“Most assuredly,” he replied; “but as I have business there, 
and am so near, I will go now and attend to it.” 

The happy trio then hastened toward Mr. Seely’s as rapidly 
as Edward’s feeble condition would permit. He told of his 
“exchange,” with several thousand other prisoners; how— 
partly by sea and then by cars, he had come thus far on his 
journey homeward. 

Reaching Lockwood the night before, he made his way 
through the darkness to Aunt Carrie’s; his home longings had 
inspired him to start thus early in the morning. How many 
eager questions they asked each other as they—soldier brothers— 
took their peaceful march together. Every tree and stone and 
bridge were familiar way marks to Edward’s eyes. How often 
had he thought of this road while marching amid new and 
strange scenes in an enemy’s country—dangers threatening on 
every hand. Here all was peaceful and safe. 

Well did Walter know that in Edward’s mind—as the old 
home appeared in view—were thoughts—sad thoughts—of 
their mother, who would not be there to greet him. 

As they came opposite the orchard they saw their father 
still at work trimming the trees. 

“Shall we go and meet him, Edward, before going to the 
house?” asked Walter. 

“Yes,” was Edward’s only reply. 

Crossing the fence they walked among the trees toward their 


[ 141 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 

father. Hearing voices, he turned and glanced toward them. 
Either not recognizing them at the distance, or to hide his emo¬ 
tions, he resumed his work. 

“He has grown very gray while I have been gone,” said 
Edward. 

“Yes, Edward,” said Walter; “father has seen and suffered 
a great amount of anxiety and sorrow in the years you have 
been away, but your coming will cheer him greatly.” 

Hearing their voices so near, Mr. Seely turned again, with an 
inquiring look; recognizing Walter first, he said: “Why, I 
thought you had gone to -” then stopped short, as Ed¬ 

ward stepped nearer to him and said: “father, don’t you know 
me?” 

Dropping his tools, Mr. Seely gathered him to his heart and 
said, with choking voice: 

“Oh, bless the Lord, Edward! Is it possible you are alive 
and have come home to us again? We had long since given 
you up for dead, my son; this unexpected joy seems too good to 
be true. Are you well?” he asked, releasing him from his 
embrace. 

“Not well,” Edward answered, “but far better than many 
who were in prison with me, or I could not be here.” 

“Come,” said his father, also addressing his cousin and 
Walter, “we will go to the house; your mother will not be there 
to welcome you, Edward, my son, but Rosamond would want 
to see you if she knew you were here.” 

As they started toward the house Rosamond—looking up 
from her work, and out through the kitchen window, saw the 
group coming from the orchard; a second glance assured her, it 
was Edward; crossing the garden at a rapid pace she cried, while 
tears of joy ran down her cheeks: “Oh, Edward! Edward! 
My brother! Home at last.” 

After the greeting they walked arm in arm until they reached 
the door. All was silent within; no voice—no footstep. Ed¬ 
ward hesitated on the threshold, as if waiting for another fa¬ 
miliar greeting. For the first time the full truth seemed to 
flash upon his mind that he should see his mother no more; for 


[ 142 ] 



Alive From The Dead 


the moment he was unmanned. His joy yielded place to a 
greater sorrow. Resting his head and hand against the casement 
of the door, he wept bitterly. 

“Poor Edward!” excalimed his cousin, as she stood among the 
sympathizing group; “his is a sad, as well as a joyous, home¬ 
coming; but,” she added, as if she too had caught the spirit of 
Aunt Carrie—her devoted mother—“it is all for the best, 
Edward.” 

Entering the house, Mr. Seely sat down to visit with his 
two sons, while emotions of pride and happiness filled his heart. 

Rosamond, assisted by her cousin, began preparing the 
dinner. 

“Edward,” she asked, coming back to the sitting room door, 
“what would you like for dinner?” 

“I must take very small rations for a while the surgeon 
said, until my capacity for abundance is restored; and”—he 
answered further, with something of his old time cheerfulness— 
“I would like to have it served on a board or tin plate, with an 
iron spoon, knife, and fork to eat it with.” 

Clarence and Martin came at noon from the field where 
they had been working. They entered the sitting room without 
being informed of Edward’s return; their surprise at seeing him 
was unbounded, and for the third time within a couple of hours 
he gave a brief account of himself, in answer to their many 
questions. 

“Mamma,” called Rosamond’s little girl from the bedroom, 
awakened now from sleep. “Who are dot soller man talkin’ 
wif drampa and untie Walfer?” 

Edward, hearing her childish inquiry, went to the bedroom 
door. The change in her was a surprise to him; from an in¬ 
fant—lying in his arms when he went away—she had grown to 
be a prattling child. 

So long had he been deprived of the presence and sight of 
child life and womanhood, the picture before him—of Rosa¬ 
mond, standing with her child in her arms—was a scene of love 
and beauty calculated to touch his heart; putting his arms around 
them he kissed them both. The child drew closer to her mother 


[ 143 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


at first, as if in fear; then, attracted by the shining buttons on 
his coat, she reached her hands toward him; taking her in his 
arms he carried her to the sitting room. 

“Has ’ou dot on untie Walter’s toat?’’ the child asked, 
scrutinizing him carefully. 

“Has uncle Walter a coat with bright buttons on it?” Ed¬ 
ward inquired, smiling. 

“Untie Walter was a soller, him was,” she further informed 
him, then asked, “where did ’ou been? Did ’ou see any ’ittle 
dirls?” 

Unable to inform her understanding, as to her first question, 
he answered her second inquiry by saying: 

“Yes, I saw a great many little girls; their faces, hands and 
feet were black.” 

“Did ’eir mammas wash the black off?” the child asked, with 
a look of astonishment. 

“No,” said Edward, “the black will not wash off; but their 
hair is curlier than grandpa’s.” 

“Poor ’ittle dirlies,” said the child, with a far-away look in 
her eyes, as she put her hands upon her straight, long hair— 
as if thinking of the snarls that made her cry when her mother 
combed them out—pitying also the children whose hair was so 
curly and hard to comb, whose mothers never washed the 
“black” off their faces. 

When dinner was ready, and all were seated at the table, 
Walter—who was anything but a Christian boy when Edward 
went away—surprised him, as, with trembling lips, he returned 
thanks to the Giver of the blessings before them, but especially 
for the privilege of having with them him whom they had so 
long mourned as never to return. Rosamond was sitting in her 
mother’s place. The table was filled with a variety and abun¬ 
dance of food, such as Edward has not seen for many months. 
The memory of the long, weary days of hunger came up before 
him. “Oh,” he thought to himself, “if I could only have had 
such a repast spread before me within those prison walls and 
shared it with my starving comrades, how much suffering and 
how many deaths would have been prevented.” 


[ 144 ] 


Alive From The Dead 


He recalled the brief respite from pinching hunger, he and 
others were permitted to enjoy in the stockade at Anderson- 
ville, when a box of food was admitted, sent by his mother and 
others, whose friends or relatives were then with him in prison. 

Now at home, with abundance before him, he sat as if 
stupefied—his plate of food before him untouched, while all the 
others had commenced eating. 

“What can I help you to, my son?” said Mr. Seely. His 
words aroused Edward from the reverie by which he seemed to 
be made unconscious of his surroundings. As all eyes were 
turned toward him, he said: 

“I have often dreamed of such a scene as this, father! but on 
waking up have found it a delusion; such dreams I came to 
dread, the waking from them was so painful and full of bitter 
disappointment. I have been trying to make myself realize I am 
not dreaming now, but am truly awake and that this is all real. 
But I must restrain my appetite; many of our men—notwith¬ 
standing all the surgeon’s precautions—ate too much after 
entering the Federal lines, and did not live to reach home. But 
I do not think I can eat any dinner after all”—saying which 
he laid down his knife and fork and pushed his plate from him, 
while a smile began to drive his serious looks away. 

“Why not? are you sick?” was asked in alarm. 

“Oh, no,” he replied, trying to divert their minds from the 
painful things he had been saying, “but Rosamond has not 
furnished me a tin plate and iron spoon; I hardly know how to 
use these dishes. I have been used to cooking my corn meal 
on a brick, and—to tell the truth—I have eaten my light 
rations from my fingers entirely of late.” 

Rosamond’s face flushed and her eyes filled with tears, but 
she said to him: “You cannot be indulged in such exquisite 
barbarities any more. You must be content to use china and 
silver now; if I had dishes made of diamonds and spoons of 
gold I would not think them better than you deserve.” 

“You have not told us much about your prison life,” said 
Rosamond’s husband. 

“That is a subject, Clarence, I do not like to talk about,” 

[ 145 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


said Edward. “You could not realize it were I to describe it, 
and it would only arouse bitter feelings in your minds. I am 
glad to have lived to be delivered from it. If I regain my 
health and strength, as they were before I was captured—a year 
and a half ago—and peace and friendship shall be established 
between North and South, I shall be thankful. I am anxious 
to see the war come to an end. I am also willing to join my 
regiment as soon as able, and take my chances again.” 

The dinner hour passed; the afternoon and evening were 
given up by the family to entertaining Edward—indeed, the 
week that followed was spent in visiting and receiving company 
that came to see him. 

Slowly his strength returned; his weakened system could 
scarcely assimilate the nourishing food provided him; once 
—for several hours—lais life was despaired of—the result of 
change in diet and manner of living, notwithstanding the cau¬ 
tious heed he gave his surgeon’s instructions. He found it dif¬ 
ficult to sleep upon the soft bed Rosamond’s hands had so care¬ 
fully prepared for him—in marked contrast to the hole in which 
he and two comrades had all but burrowed—roofed over with 
rough sticks and a ragged blanket. Now he often rolled him¬ 
self in a bed quilt and laid upon the carpeted floor in Rosamond’s 
parlor, before he could coax sleep to his wakeful eyes. 

When ready for duty at the front again, while waiting in 
daily expectation of being ordered to rejoin his regiment, he 
and Walter rode to Lockwood for the family mail. 

“Hurrah!” said Walter, as he came from the postoffice with 
an open paper in his hand. 

“What’s the news?” Edward asked. 

“No more soldiering for you,” said Walter, as he read aloud: 
“All soldiers at home on furloughs or leave of absence now under 
orders to report for duty will remain under suspended orders 
until further notice.” 

Turning to another column, he read the head lines: 

“The last battle is fought; the war is over.” 

“That settles it, then,” said Edward, thoughtfully. 

“Yes,” said Walter, (i this cruel war is over.” 


[ 146 ] 


Alive From The Dead 


A month later Edward rejoined the fragment of his regi¬ 
ment that so proudly left Juliet three years before—a thousand 
strong. The beautiful flag that had been presented to them 
was weather stained and battle torn—rent and riddled by shot 
and shell, but never surrendered to the enemy. Its bearers 
had fallen again and again, wounded or dead, but other brave 
hands quickly raised it up. Now its tattered shreds hung to 
the scarred staff, to be kept in memory of the heroes who had 
fallen, and looked upon by those who survived to tell of the 
noble deeds of their dead comrades. 

The regiment was discharged, and Edward, like thousands of 
others, returned to the honest avocations of peace. 

Some there were who predicted that an army, accustomed to 
plundering and bloodshed, being disbanded would overrun the 
country with men who would be bandits and outlaws—paying 
no heed to law and order and the rights of peaceable men and 
women. Many thousands lost their lives during the long and 
bloody conflict, whereby the slaves were made free—the Union 
saved; but better still—pledge of the country’s safety and future 
greatness—those who survived preserved their manhood —be¬ 
coming good citizens, faithful in all the true relations of life. 


[ 147 ] 


CHAPTER XXI. 


An Evil Traffic. 

After his return from the army, Walter had actively engaged 
in the work of the temperance society which he had assisted 
in forming before he enlisted. 

Edward united also and together he and Walter attended 
regularly, while the latter was spending his vacation on the farm. 

Their surprise and pleasure were increased each week as they 
welcomed their former comrades to membership. 

Walter rejoiced especially to meet Claude Sharon, after their 
long separation in different branches of army service. 

The presence of so many blue uniforms and the white apparel 
and rosy cheeks of the young ladies was a blending of national 
colors, quite patriotic. 

Temperance hymns and—in honor of the soldiers present— 
patriotic tunes were sung. 

The soldiers, with few exceptions, did not object to signing 
the “iron clad” pledge. 

Harry Stone, who had felt the force of a rebel bullet, expressed 
the sentiments of his comrades when he said: “I have been 
shot in the foot once, and am proud of it. I have—I must con¬ 
fess—been shot in the neck a great many times and am ashamed 
of that. But,” he added, when the ripple of laughter, caused 
by his remark, had subsided—“having been ‘honorably dis¬ 
charged’ from one army, I have decided to enlist in another 
and fight—under the cold water flag—against the greatest 
enemy our country has ever had.’” 

When the applause following his remarks had died away, 
James Clarkson—who had j ust been elected president—remarked: 
“I have been more fortunate than Comrade Harry—as to 
bullet wounds—but I have suffered considerably from ‘snakes 


[ 148 ] 



An Evil Traffic 


in my boots’—reptiles that ‘sting like an adder.’ I think, how¬ 
ever, the attractions and influence of this pleasant company, 
enlisted in a common cause and to help each other, will be such 
that I will hereafter feel no inclination to go where such serpents 
are to be met with. I feel the responsibility you have placed upon 
me, but I trust—by your aid—I shall prove worthy the honor I 
have received.” 

Walter rejoiced when Claude Sharon said: “The pledge has 
helped me. The memory of this society and the pledge I took 
when it was organized was a great benefit to me, while battling 
against our country’s foes, and personal enemies in the form of 
temptations to wrong doing. In the army I was often grieved 
to see men—while fighting to free one class from bondage—yield 
themselves to a worse kind of slavery. 

“I do not understand how our government, which has made 
such an effort to preserve the Union, can remain idle—and seem 
blind to the fact—that the whole government—state and 
national—is being surrendered to the sway of the despot, King 
Alcohol. 

“We soldiers took an oath we would defend the Union. We 
did it, with swords and bullets. Now comrades! as the country 
is still in danger, we must defend it by moral suasion and our 
ballots.” 

Dr. Leonard was present with his daughters; each wore a 
look of happy contentment, for the Doctor had kept his pledge 
faithfully and his practice had rapidly increased. 

As the members of the society separated that night each felt 
that the strong had found a place to work for the weak and 
erring; a place where the victims of appetite and weakness 
could find a refuge from temptation. 

Passing along the streets, they were made to realize how 
great was the need for agencies of reform and retreats for the 
tempted. The saloons and taverns were open on every business 
street and thronged with men and boys—bevies of girls and 
women, in some cases, mingling with the boisterous patrons of 
the bar. 

Noise and profanity, blended with the sound of clinking 


[ 149 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


glasses and shuffling feet. Men went reeling out, to be met by 
policemen and led away to jail; while thus depriving their fami¬ 
lies of their presence, it was really a protection from the drunken 
rudeness of an intoxicated husband, son or father. When, 
however, prosecution followed, the fine imposed still further 
deprived the family of needed help. 

Occasionally mothers or wives could be seen standing outside 
the awful places of revelry and crime, until—hearing the voice 
of some loved ones for whom they were searching—they could 
wait no longer; made heedless of danger and threatened insult— 
by the love and pity that burned in their hearts—they would 
enter; some returning with tokens of grief or despair stamped 
upon every feature; others could be seen leading their husband 
or father, or a youth, with flashing eyes—face flushed with the 
excitement of the game or by the fiery beverage he had taken. 

“Oh, Edward!” said Walter, as they viewed these scenes, 
“such things fairly make my blood boil. I tremble lest Rosa¬ 
mond may yet be driven to such extremities as those poor 
women are.” 

As they passed the place he had entered with Harry Shields, 
Walter recalled the incident with too much of shame to mention 
it to his brother. While driving homeward in the calm, starlit 
summer night, Edward, as if impressed with the maturing judg¬ 
ment of his younger brother, said to him: 

“It does not seem as if you are the same Walter you were 
when I went from home.” 

“I trust I am not,” he replied. “I was led to see my follies 
and withdraw from wrong associates before evil habits got the 
mastery of me. Mother’s last days greatly strengthened and 
encouraged me. Mr. Vinton has been a true pastor and friend, 
to whom I owe much, for his example and advice. This tem¬ 
perance society, by its work and instruction, has also been very 
beneficial to me. While I do not regard it as I do the church 
and Sunday school, I observe it has already brought many under 
their influence.” 

“I am very glad you have commenced your college course,” 
said Edward. “It was my ambition, and I was planning to 


[ 150 ] 


An Evil Traffic 


obtain a more thorough education than I possess. When the 
war began I felt I would not be doing my duty to the present or 
future of our country by letting my personal interests come be¬ 
fore the obligation I owe the government. It does not appear 
now that I shall be able to resume my studies, but I shall 
gladly aid you in your undertaking.” 

“What are your plans for yourself, if it is a fair question?” 
asked Walter. 

“Well,” he replied, “as father has deeded the east farm to 
Rosamond and Clarence, they will move there. He has asked 
me to take charge of the homestead for a year or two, which I 
expect to do in the Spring; after Rosamond has moved to her 
new home a housekeeper will be installed. Martin will attend 
school next winter and work with me after the term closes. I 
shall be pleased to have you with me next summer during your 
vacation.” 

“That will certainly be very pleasant to me, Edward,” 
Walter remarked. “It will seem like old times if we three boys 
work again together in the same fields. I presume our age and 
experience will not cause father to repeat his maxim to us as 
he used to.” 

“What w T as that?” asked Edward. 

“Don’t you remember, when we would get to playing wdiile 
at work, he would say, ‘one boy is a whole boy; two boys are 
half a boy; three boys are no boy at all?’ ” 

Having reached the gate leading to the barn Walter alighted 
and opened it for Edward to drive through. A sudden move¬ 
ment of something white by the side of the road frightened the 
horses. They dashed through the gateway and across the 
yard at full speed, over shrubbery and flower beds. Edward 
was trying to rein them to the right of a tree to avoid a col¬ 
lision; a rein parted and he was thrown from the carriage. 

Fearing he w T as killed or badly injured Walter hastened to¬ 
ward him; but in a moment he sprang to his feet; running at 
full speed—as the horses were circling through the garden—he 
came in ahead of them and seized them by the bridles; after 
being dragged a few rods he brought them to a standstill, 


[ 151 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

where they stood trembling and panting when Walter reached 
them. 

‘'Pretty well done,” he remarked; “one infantry man captur¬ 
ing a runaway troop of cavalry; I see you have lost nothing of 
your bravery as a horseman, Edward. Are you injured in 
any way?” 

“No bones broken,” Edward replied; “but I guess that is 
more than can be said for Rosamond’s flowers and father’s 
choice fruit trees. We are lucky nothing worse has happened.” 

So quiet had been the whole affair that no one in the house had 
been awakened. The next morning, however, Mr. Seely going 
out quite early discovered the results. 

“Walter,” he said, when he began serving at the breakfast 
table, “ where were you and Edward last night? Give an account 
of yourselves.” 

Rosamond looked at her father in astonishment, as did also 
the other members of the family—except Walter and Edward, 
who, surmising what their father had discovered, saw through 
the assumed sternness of his looks and tone of voice. 

“We went to the temperance society in Lockwood,” Walter 
answered. 

“Judging by the looks of things in the door yard and garden, 
I should conclude you were at an intemperance society,” said 
Mr. Seely, less seriously. 

“That was Edward’s doing,” Walter replied. “He must 
have thought he was going to be captured again; not being on 
foot this time, he ‘showed the white feather’ when something 
rushed from the bushes by the gate side, and he drove off at full 
speed, without offering to take me out of danger, and was not 
very particular where he went.” 

“May the saints presairve us!” exclaimed John, the hired 
man—crossing himself—“but whin I wint to dig the peratees for 
breakfus I was shure a whoole rigimint of artillery had cavoorted 
ferninst the house and over the pay voines;” then his little, 
deep-set eyes fairly twinkled out of sight in his round red face, 
wdiile his sides shook with laughter. 

“Did the horses run away, Edward?” asked Martin. 


[ 152 ] 


An Evil Traffic, 


“Well, yes,” answered Edward—“at least they did not do 
much walking for a short time after I started through the 
gateway; but I cannot imagine what frightened them.” 

“Oh pshaw, Edward!” said Martin, laughing. “You must 
have seen several ‘white feathers.’ Last summer I put two 
goose eggs under a hen; only one hatched. When the gosling 
grew and feathered out it was white; after the hen left it, the 
flock of geese at the barn would not allow it to go with them, so 
it has mated with old Rover day times; at night it creeps under 
the bushes by the gate. That was what scared you, Edward.” 

“ Scared me /” exclaimed Edward, as he joined the rest in a 
hearty laugh at the new turn Martin had given the affair by 
transferring the fright from the horses to him. 

“It may scare horses,” Edward added; “but, Martin! it 
takes something more than a white goose to frighten an old 
soldier; on the other hand, all kinds of fowls down South learned, 
before the war was over, to keep shy of soldiers; by the time 
they learned that lesson many were beyond the possibility of 
profiting by their knowledge.” 

After their good-natured chaffing had ended and breakfast 
was finished, Walter read a chapter in the Bible as usual and 
offered prayer, fervently thanking the Divine Being for escape 
from danger, and prayed that each might have grace to live 
right lives and be ready when death should come. 

“May the Howly Mother bless yees, Walther, fer yure illi- 
gant prayin’,” said John, as he passed out of the room. Al¬ 
though John was a strict Romanist, and would occasionally 
take too much “grog” for steady walking, he was honest and 
industrious and not averse to Walter’s prayers and Bible 
reading. 

Those were days and weeks of encouragement to Rosamond. 
Her brothers were at home as in former years—“children still, 
but of larger growth.” Their presence had also done Clarence 
good; with abundant harvests and their aid in gathering them 
he had been less despondent and had avoided Lockwood and 
late hours there to an unusual extent during the summer. 

Rosamond’s face began to express less anxiety when business 


[ 153 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


called him there. Mr. Seely and his sons had mutually agreed 
to see that she and her children were protected and provided 
for. Toward her husband they exercised feelings of pity and 
expressed their friendship. 


[ 154 ] 


CHAPTER XXII. 


Wrecks. 

Clarence Farnsworth possessed—in many respects—an ex¬ 
quisite nature. Gentle in disposition, sensitive to praise or 
blame; mild-eyed and fine featured; with a voice—in speech or 
song—soft and flexible as the tones of a flute, broken now and 
then w T hen in conversation, by a musical, ringing laugh; tall and 
well formed in stature, with the natural graces of a gentleman, 
all who saw him at his best were attracted by his personal 
appearance and affable manners. 

Had his mind, heart and ambitions been led into proper 
channels during his boyhood days, his would have been a 
beautiful and useful life. 

Just when a mother’s gentle voice was most needed to counsel, 
her hand to restrain or lead him, his mother was called from 
earth. In her place the tempter came and evil companions 
polluted his young life. 

Being weak where he needed to be strong, he did not say 
“no” to temptation; being strong or self-willed when he should 
have been teachable, he would not say “yes” to the right and 
duty. 

That he could be strong and true when self-interest or pleasure 
required was proven, when he mastered his appetite for strong 
drink, for two years before his marriage to Rosamond and as 
many more afterwards. 

As Walter grew older and understood himself and human 
nature better, he discovered, very clearly, the cause of Clar¬ 
ence’s weakness. 

Each possessed a nervous temperament; generous in dispo¬ 
sition, they wished to please others; of confiding nature, they 
were slow to mistrust evil purpose in any pretended friendship, 
however false. 


[ 155 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


When, therefore, they first looked upon men indulging in 
strong drink, they were impressed with the show of good feeling 
over the social glass; or the evident relish with which they 
drank intoxicating beverages, gave them each a desire to 
partake. 

Some say they do not enjoy the taste or odor of alchohol, nat¬ 
urally; the less excuse, the more the fool for using it. With 
Clarence Farnsworth and Walter Seely, to taste it once was to 
relish it and desire more. 

The removal of temptation from his home, with the instruc¬ 
tion and example given him by his parents; better still—his 
deep religious experience saved Walter at just the point in his 
boyhood days, when Clarence had been left exposed and led 
on to ruin. 

“O, if Clarence had only become a true Christian before his 
mother died!'’ Walter had often said to himself—“that would 
have drawn him away from evil company, into pure associa¬ 
tions; it would also have enlightened his moral perceptions, 
and given him strength to obey the dictates of his conscience.” 

Walter had fondly hoped to see him take an interest in spir¬ 
itual matters and attend church with Rosamond, after their 
little boy was taken from them. While in this he w T as disap¬ 
pointed, his putting on a better, stronger manhood during the 
summer following Edward’s return, caused a brighter—if but 
a transient—day to dawn on Rosamond. 

From amid the happy group standing on the farm house 
porch one beautiful autumn morning, after a vacation so full 
of thrilling and delightful experiences, Walter took his departure 
again for college. 

“Dood bye, untie Walter, dood bye!” were among the last 
words he heard as he looked back—just as Edward was driving 
through the gateway—where so short a time before he so nar¬ 
rowly escaped what had well nigh been a sad catastrophe— 
and saw Rosamond’s little girl, in her grandfather Seely’s 
arms, waving her hands and throwing kisses after him. 

As he and Edward drove along the straight and level road 
across the prairies, now fenced into farms—dotted with build- 


[ 156 ] 



Wrecks 


ings and clusters of trees—they passed the homes of John 
Giddings and Mart Eldred. 

“John’s wife died while you were in the army, Edward,” 
Walter replied—in answer to his brother’s question relative to 
this neighbor. “He continued to drink the same as when you 
used to see him coming from Lockwood, driving at such furious 
speed; his wife lived a sad life, and died leaving an infant 
daughter in his care. He promised her so many times he would 
reform. Indeed, he did keep his promise so long as he did not 
go to town; then, venturing there—unable to resist the tempta¬ 
tions that met him at every open saloon door—he fell again 
and again. At last she gave up in despair. She was a beautiful 
woman of culture and refinement, reared in an excellent home. 
I was at the funeral. It seemed to crush John’s heart when 
he looked at his little Reta, clinging to her young aunt, and 
calling for her mother.” 

“What became of Mart Eldred? Did he cease drinking?” 
asked Edward. 

“No,” answered Walter; “he grew more and more corpulent 
and red faced; finally sold his farm and moved West. Edward, 
you remember the old man who came to our house in a half 
frozen, drunken state one night several years ago when we boys 
and John were alone?” 

“Yes, I remember the incident very well,” replied Edward; 
“he would have frozen to death had we not taken him in.” 

“He lives in the house yonder by the large barn,” Walter 
remarked, pointing toward a cluster of handsome farm buildings. 

“His boys are mostly man-grown; one is studying to be a 
priest; the rest work the farm. Not one has followed the fath¬ 
er’s intemperate example. He does not go to Lockwood often, 
then he is accompanied by his wife; without her he would 
surely come home intoxicated. She is a good manager, hence 
their prosperity. ” 

“It is quite remarkable,” said Edward, ”all the boys are 
sober, industrious young men; probably they have seen enough 
in their father’s conduct to satisfy and disgust them with 
drinking. 


[ 157 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“But who lives here?” he asked, as they passed a place in the 
last stages of dilapidation with but few signs of life about. 

The gate was swinging on one hinge, the latch broken; boards 
and pickets were off the fence in places; many panes of glass 
were broken from the windows and the holes filled with old 
clothes; the chimney was half tumbled down. Weeds were 
standing tall and ripe in the garden. Barns, pens, tumbled 
down stacks of hay and straw, broken wagons and rusty, 
weather-beaten machinery were to be seen here and there— 
going to wrack and ruin, while beyond lay a beautiful tract of 
land—but covered with weeds and stunted corn, surrounded 
by a tumbled down fence—all needing only the hand of sobriety 
and industry to make a garden of wealth. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Edward, before Walter could answer his 
query, “it is John Bunnel’s place!” 

Just then that individual came out upon the rickety porch. 
The crown of his hat partly gone—his hair was standing up 
like feathers on the head of a tufted Indian; his coat ragged, his 
kness through his pantaloons, toes out of his boots. A girl 
and boy followed him, dressed in style in keeping with their 
father’s—only their faces were clean, their hair smoothly 
combed—as was their mother’s also, who appeared at the win¬ 
dow as Walter and Edward drove past. 

To them it had been almost a daily occurrence for years to 
see John Bunnel passing their home—early in the day—on his 
way to Lockwood. He drove a bony, spavined horse, har¬ 
nessed with ropes, straps and chains, to a rickety, rattling old 
vehicle—axles bent by frequent collisions with various objects 
until the wheels wobbled—each at a different angle—as they 
made their crazy revolutions. Going, he sat in a drooping, 
listless attitude, holding the lines carelessly, while the horse, 
head down, jogged slowly along. Returning—the horse, pant¬ 
ing and frightened, would zigzag from side to side in the road; 
now, stand still; then, jump and start on in a limping canter, 
until brought to a slower pace or another standstill by John, 
who would lash and saw him with whip and lines in one hand, 
while with the other he would wave his old hat and shout and 


[ 158 ] 



Wrecks 


sing, rock and reel until he reached home and was hidden from 
public view until the next day. 

Other places were passed which were the homes of men who 
had become drunkards, who frequently passed Mr. Seely’s 
home, going to Lockwood; returning, they were usually in a 
state of noisy delirium or stupefied intoxication. 

One of these—Mr. Harrington—especially impressed Walter 
with feelings of sadness and pity. With his whitened locks 
and feeble body it seemed each time he passed that he could not 
endure another day’s exposure to the scorching heat of the sum¬ 
mer’s sun, nor the freezing blasts of winter. 

It was at his house that Mary Pendleton—His niece—made 
her home when not teaching in the district where Walter and 
Edward lived. To Mrs. Seely, with whom she found a home 
while teaching, she often mentioned her uncle’s habits with 
expressions of shame; while she pitied him and her aged aunt, 
she was always glad when the hour arrived that her duty made 
it her pleasant privilege to return to her school and boarding 
place. In her—during Rosamond’s absence—Mrs. Seely found 
one wdio all but filled a daughter’s place; while admiring her 
as a teacher, the younger boys loved, and—at home—caressed 
her as an older sister. No one more sincerely mourned their 
mother’s death, nor sympathized more tenderly with the 
sorrowing household. 

“I did not ask you about Mr. Harrington as we passed his 
house. What became of him? I have not seen him pass 
father’s since I came home,” said Edward. 

“He is still living, but is old and feeble,” answered Walter. 
“After his old horse died and he rented his farm he could not 
go to Lockwood; I presume he cannot procure liquor, so—making 
a virtue of necessity—keeps sober.” 

“I do not wish anyone a particle of harm or loss,” said Ed¬ 
ward, smiling—“but it might be a good thing if more such 
men would lose their horses. It might be an effectual way of 
keeping them sober by compelling them to remain at home. 
Think for a moment how badly such men abuse their horses!” 
said Edward, more seriously. 


[ 159 ] 




Chronicles of a Farm House 


“How many times some of those whose places we have passed 
have driven their teams to Lockwood with heavy loads; then, 
going to the saloons, gambled, drank and treated until the money 
received for their loads of produce was all spent! Then—often 
late at night—whooping and cursing, they have driven their 
hungry, tired horses home on the run. I tell you, Walter, they 
deserved to be horsewhipped.” 

“That only proves,” replied Walter, “that the man who drinks 
is not the only one to suffer on account of it; even the dumb 
brutes in his power must endure his cruelty. 

“Do you remember that big, burly Irishman who lived in 
the shanty near the school house—how he would come home 
drunk and often, finding his wife working at the wash tub, would 
beat her until her eyes were black, then turn her and the chil¬ 
dren out of doors? 

“If there are so many drinking men living on this one road 
leading to Lockwood, how many more are there on all the other 
roads leading to our market town? How much misery and sor- 
, row must those homes represent, into which the Lockwood 
saloons are sending their customers—victims of their infamous 
traffic? 

“Then, further, think of all the drinking men and boys who 
live on the various roads leading from the quiet, beautiful rural 
sections of the country into towns and cities! Then think of 
the blight which the licensed saloon in those places is sending 
upon the farm homes of the nation! Not only so, but the 
cities and towns themselves, where the saloons are located, 
think of them and the crime and poverty resulting from intem¬ 
perance! What a widespread curse is the liquor traffic! ” 

Walter paused a few moments and added: “I wish I was old 
enough and able to write a book, preach, lecture—do something 
to help abolish it.” 

“Are there any saloons in Flainwell?” asked Edward—as they 
were approaching the place of their destination. 

“There are none,” said Walter; “what is more, I did not see 
a drunken man while I was there last year at college, save 


[ 160 ] 


Wrecks 


when a farmer on his way home or someone came in an intoxi¬ 
cated state from Juliet or Lockwood. 

“You will notice as we drive through the beautiful town how 
quiet and orderly everything is. On the business streets— 
by night or day—a lady is just as safe as a man; they hardly 
need the one policeman, who goes home at ten o’clock at night 
and comes upon the street at seven o’clock in the morning. 

“If they had saloons there, no doubt some students would 
frequent them. Many citizens and their sons would form 
drinking habits; some, who have reformed and moved there to 
be separated from so many temptations, would again fall into 
their former habits. As many policemen would be needed as 
in Lockwood or Juliet; crime would increase and the jail be 
filled. 

“By the way, that makes me think! Do you know, Edward, 
eighty per cent of the prisoners in the penitentiary at Juliet 
committed crimes through the influence of intemperance? One 
of the officers gave us that startling information; he was hunt¬ 
ing an escaped convict and ate dinner at our house.” 


[ 161 ] 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


True Friendship. 

“Here we are in Plainwell!” exclaimed Walter, and pro¬ 
ceeded to point out to Edward the college—towering above 
the tree tops; he called his attention also to the principal build¬ 
ings and points of interest as they passed on until they arrived 
at Mrs. Wellington’s in time for dinner. 

Edward improved the afternoon visiting his army comrades 
residing in Plainwell, then returned to his home in the early 
evening. 

Walter found new conditions prevailing in Mrs. Wellington’s 
home. Her daughter had married and moved away. Clarence 
Frisbie was not to resume his studies until later in the year. 
Walter decided instead of going to his room, to spend this first 
evening after his return, with Mrs. Wellington and her adopted 
daughter, recounting their various experiences during vacation. 
Many young men at different times had made their home with 
this pleasant family. Mrs. Wellington’s motherly ways made 
the most homesick students forget their loneliness. Her care¬ 
ful nursing brought them back to health when ill. Her counsel 
or mirthful ridicule would soon rid them of uncouth manners 
or pernicious habits. 

When her oldest son died, and—shortly after—she was called 
to part with her youngest child, the only remaining son, the 
door of her mother heart was left wide open; young men found 
a ready welcome, as though in them also—in their ambitions 
and temptations—she found an opportunity to perform the un¬ 
finished work she had planned for her own loved ones. 

When Maud was a little child Mrs. Wellington had adopted 
her from an institution devoted to the care of orphan children. 
She now filled a large place in her new mother’s affections and 
thoughts. 


[ 162 ] 



True Friendship 


The few rescued fragments of the girl’s history, revealed the 
facts, that her mother had been a woman of rare qualities of 
mind and heart, but had married outside of pleasant surround¬ 
ings and helpful family relations. 

The husband and father—whatever he was by nature and 
early education, or what he might have become by right moral 
influences, was another illustration of the power of strong 
drink; having reduced his family to poverty he left them to die 
of want, if human help failed to succor before sickness and 
starvation had done their work. 

Death came to the mother’s relief in an hour of extreme sor¬ 
row and need; not, however, until her children, found on the 
street by a kind-hearted policeman, crying for food and shelter, 
had been led to the door of the “Home of the Friendless.” 

There—after the plain obsequies of their mother had been 
performed by public charity—they were afforded protection and 
care, in company with hundreds more who were similarly be¬ 
reft—by a similar cause. 

Mrs. Wellington and her husband visited the institution 
shortly after the death of their youngest child; they were 
attracted by the sweet voice and gentle manners of Maud— 
then a child of four years—whom they saw among the children. 

While visiting other places of interest in the city Mrs. Wel¬ 
lington could not dismiss frequent thoughts about the girl. 
Her husband was not only surprised at her declining a day’s 
pleasure in Central Park, but more so when he was requested to 
accompany her again to the “Home of the Friendless.” Realiz¬ 
ing, however, how sorely grieved her heart had been by their 
bereavement, thought possibly she had seen some boy who re¬ 
minded her of their little son; or that she had formed some 
generous plan and wished more knowledge of the institution 
before she returned to her western home to enlist the co-opera¬ 
tion of her friends in performing her benevolent purposes. 
When, therefore, he asked if she found pleasure in seeing so 
many homeless children, she replied: 

“No, that is not it. I did not derive much pleasure from 
what I saw there; it seemed too sad to see so many orphans. 


[ 163 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

It is a question of duty. Those children need homes. We 
have two vacant chairs at our table—two vacant places in our 
home. I cannot free my mind from the thought we ought to 
adopt one of those children.” 

“Very well,” said Mr. Wellington, “we will go at once and 
see them.” 

On the way he inquired if she had seen a little boy she espe¬ 
cially wished to adopt. 

“I did not,” she replied; “but do you remember the little 
girl dressed in pink, who stood in the gallery and sang alone so 
sweetly? I shall be glad if she is still there and we can get her! ” 

“I do remember her,” he answered; “but do you think you 
can endure the labor and care of so young a child?” he added, 
after a moment’s pause. 

“I can endure it better than I can the lonely feelings that 
weigh so heavily and constantly on my heart,” his wife 
replied. 

Arriving at the instituion Mrs. Wellington asked the matron 
concerning little Maud. 

“I regret to say, a lady called and partially engaged her 
since you were here,” stated the matron; “as she would hardly 
be strong enough, however, to act as nurse and playmate for 
the lady’s baby the managers will not be likely to consent to the 
arrangement.” 

“I shall be very sorry if I fail to get her,” said Mrs. Wel¬ 
lington, while a look of disappointment rested on her face. 

“Well, then, if that is the case,” said Mr. Wellington—ad¬ 
dressing the matron with indications of increasing interest in 
the matter—“will you present our application to the mana¬ 
gers, with the understanding that we will adopt her as our own 
child and give her the same advantages we have given our 
daughter, who is now grown to young womanhood?” 

“I am quite positive the knowledge of your intentions will 
have much to do with the decision of the Board,” said the 
matron. “They desire to do the very best they can for each 
child, while they wish also to please their patrons and friends 
of the institution. If you desire,” added the matron, “I will 


[ 164 ] 


True Friendship 


send for Maud, that she may come to the parlor; then you can 
better form an opinion about her.” 

Ringing a bell, a young lady appeared, to whom the matron 
said: “Will you please bring little Maud to me! This lady 
and gentleman heard her sing when they were here the other 
day and wish to see her again.” 

“I hope,” said the young lady, smiling, “they will be satis¬ 
fied with merely seeing her, for it seems we cannot spare her 
from the children’s choir.” 

While she was gone Mr. Wellington inquired as to the causes 
that brought so many children to the “Home.” 

“In a few cases,” the matron said, “worthy parents, through 
sickness or accident, have been reduced to poverty, then died, 
leaving their children destitute and homeless; but at least ninety 
out of every hundred are the children of parents who have died 
or deserted them through intemperate habits; many others are 
in prison for crimes committed under the influence of strong 
drink. 

“The law sanctions the saloon, Mr. Wellington! The people, 
by heavy taxation and private charity, pay for the punishment of 
those whom the saloons make criminals and for the care of 
those in poverty and weakness through intemperance. The 
parents of some of the children who have been here or are now 
under our care were once wealthy and influential; social wine 
drinking at elegant sideboards in pleasant homes created appe¬ 
tites which—at length—the vilest mixtures, sold in the lowest 
doggeries, could not appease; to get which the last article of 
furniture was sold and their garments pawned. 

“Of course, the most whom we provide for are from the more 
ignorant and degraded class; some are the children of misplaced 
love and shame; but the poor children are not to blame; we owe 
a duty to them all. 

“You will readily perceive from which class—especially on 
her mother’s side—Maud descended; her superior gifts are 
quite apparent.” 

The door opened, and another lady than the one who went to 
bring Maud entered the room, leading the child by the hand. 


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Chronicles of a Farm House 


“Come to me, Maud, my child,” said the matron—in a 
motherly tone—after introducing the strange lady to Mr. 
Wellington and his wife. 

Seating Maud beside her on the sofa, she said: “Would you 
like to go with that lady and gentleman and take a ride on the 
cars, then be their little girl?” 

“Can Dicky go, too?” she inquired concerning her little 
brother. 

“Not now, I guess!” was the answer. “After a w T hile, I 
think God will send some nice people after Dicky and Mary; 
then they will have nice homes, too, and you will all be good 
and happy children.” 

Maud walked slowly across the room in answer to Mrs. 
Wellington’s call and received an orange, a new doll and other 
childish treasures. 

As her new friend put her arms lovingly around her, pressing 
her to her heart, while telling her about the flowers and birds, 
toys, pictures and books that should be hers in the new home, 
the child turned her eyes from her treasures and said, confidingly, 
to Mrs. Wellington: “I want to be your little girl!” 

Thus the conquest of the child’s heart was accomplished which 
resulted in a lasting victory. In their pleasant home in Plain- 
well Mr. Wellington soon won the child’s confidence and love 
by his gentle kindness; her greatest pleasure was to sit upon 
his knee or walk hand in hand with him to church and Sunday 
school. 

Surrounded—as she was—by so many kind friends and new 
playmates she soon ceased to miss her brother and sister. Many, 
many years have passed, and these separated children—cast 
among utter strangers—have obtained no knowledge of each 
other. 

A few years before Walter began boarding with Mrs. Wel¬ 
lington her husband’s quiet and devoted life had ended serenely. 

When alcoholic stimulants were recommedned by his physician 
he declined to use them. 

“No,” he said with feeble voice, “my hours will be few; a 
week ago last night I dreamed I was beside a narrow stream; 


[ 166 ] 


True Friendship 


on the bridge that crossed it were seven planks; I dreamed 
again last night, all had disappeared; my end is at hand; my 
pain is bearable; I have lived a temperate life, let me die sober.” 

His ample fortune was swept away by the dishonest transac¬ 
tions carried on during his sickness by a trusted partner. With 
their home and a small insurance left by her husband, Mrs. 
Wellington and her daughters began the struggle of life alone. 
Through all the years of trial and sorrow she had retained a 
spirit so cheerful as to scatter the gloom of any who came into 
her presence. Walter Seely was not aware until this evening 
of his return to Plainwell how much at home he was, nor how 
near Mrs. Wellington came to filling the place in his heart 
which no one—except Rosamond and Aunt Carrie—had filled, 
since his mother was called away. 

She had known a student’s ambitions in her own son, and wit¬ 
nessed their expression in scores of others; she seemed, therefore, 
to know what words of encouragement to speak to him or how 
to curb a growing vanity liable to spring lip in a young man’s 
mind. 

Her religious views were in accord with his own, hence he 
felt greater freedom in telling her of his feelings and temptations. 

The bright fire that blazed and crackled that chilly autumn 
evening; the lamp light that cast prismatic shades of gold and 
emerald and blue, as it shone through the glass pendants of the 
lamp; the array of books, in which he and Maud were to study 
the coming term in college; the many questions asked and an¬ 
swered; the pleasantry and merry laughter made the evening 
pass only too quickly; then Walter—after Maud, by his re¬ 
quest, had read a chapter in the Bible—offered a prayer full of 
thanksgiving for the blessings that had fallen upon their sepa¬ 
rate lives, also for the pleasure of being again permitted to enjoy 
each other’s company. 

As the days and weeks went by Walter began to think how 
favored boys are who have sisters about their own age, for 
Maud had come to fill a place in his thoughts, companionship 
and studies he deemed a sister naturally would occupy. 

He loved Rosamond dearly, but had regarded her more as a 


[ 167 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


counsellor and protector than as a companion, such as she had 
been to Edward—such as his room-mate, Clarence’s sister was 
to him. 

Maud, knowing nothing of a brother’s care and attention, 
believed girls who have loving, attentive—not teasing—broth¬ 
ers have much to be thankful for. 

Desiring to see her an actual and professing Christian, Walter 
took occasion to talk and pray with her, exacting a promise 
from her to read the Bible, pray and give her heart to the 
Lord. The promise made was faithfully performed; soon she 
obtained a sweet assurance of acceptance with the Saviour, ere 
long presenting herself for baptism and admission into the 
church where she had attended Sabbath school. 

Among his other fellow students Walter found a wide field 
for Christian effort. A former comrade in the army—James 
Flavel—especially awakened his interest, inasmuch as he had 
developed a fondness for strong drink. 

Preparing to practice law, his appetitte for ardent spirits 
was a dangerous menace to his safety and success. Walter 
conversed and prayed with him—as did others—until he pro¬ 
fessed to be renewed in heart. 

On the Sabbath afternoon following his act of uniting with 
the church and receiving the communion Walter called on him 
in his room. Finding him much depressed, he said to him: 
“What troubles you, James?” 

“Walter,” he replied excitedly, “it seems as if I shall become 
insane. I am dying for a drink of brandy. If I was where it 
could be procured I would have it. There are no saloons in 
Plainwell or I could find it—Sunday though it is—as I have in 
other towns by entering the back doors.” 

“Why do you especially desire it now, James? After taking 
the solemn vows you did today, and partaking of the com¬ 
munion, were you not made stronger in faith and courage?” 
asked Walter. 

“Oh, that wine at the communion! it aroused the slumbering 
tiger in me,” he answered, as he arose from his chair and walked 
about the room, with clenched fists and wildly staring eyes. 


[ 108 ] 


True Friendship 


“Yes, James,” said Walter, “I observed the wine that was 
used at the communion was fermented or badly adulterated. 
It burned my throat after I had taken it. I never tasted any 
like it but once, then I thought I could never breathe again; 
but a glass of water was near at hand which I drank and soon 
relieved the dreadful sensation.” 

“Could I have had a drink of water at once,” said James, “it 
would not have affected me so long; but as I sat there while 
they w T ere passing the cup to others all the past of my intem¬ 
perate life came up before me; instead of filling me with alarm 
the taste of the wine seemed to goad me on to drink and risk it 
all again.” 

“Let us kneel together, James, and pray!” said Walter. As 
he prayed James became more calm, and raised his voice in 
turn and plead with an agony of earnestness for strength to 
overcome his appetite for strong drink. When they arose 
from their knees James said: 

“Do you think, Walter, it is my duty to take the sacrament 
and suffer as I have today and run the risk of falling into my 
former evil ways, as I shall certainly do, unless God works a 
miracle to keep me from falling?” 

Unable to advise his friend what course to pursue, Walter 
said: “I will tell you what I do think, James. Unless min¬ 
isters and church officers use more discretion in procuring wine 
for sacramental purposes, instead of presenting the ‘cup of the 
Lord,’ they will be presenting the ‘cup of devils.’ ” 

“One thing is certain,” James remarked, after listening to 
Walter’s impassioned utterance, “if I did not drink the ‘devil’ 
out of that cup today he came to me very soon after I tasted of 
the contents. I do believe there were not enough of you 
present to prevent my drinking the very last drop had I got the 
cup in my hands again.” 

Remaining with him during the night, Walter was gratified 
to see a change come to James, token of final victory in this, his 
first conflict with his great enemy. In his heart he prayed that 
through coming years he might be equally triumphant. 


[ 169 ] 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


Go work in my Vineyard. 

The two following years were spent by Walter Seely in alter¬ 
nations of college life and vacations engaged in assisting Edward 
with his farm labor on the homestead, or Clarence Farnsworth 
on the east farm. The Sabbath found him attending church 
and Sunday school—occasionally assisting the pastors in Plain- 
well and Lockwood by reading and expounding the Scriptures in 
their churches; again—of his own accord—conducting public 
worship in the school house where he had formerly attended 
country school—hardly presuming to call such efforts 
“preaching.” 

On the platform, advocating temperance, and prohibition of 
the liquor traffic, he experienced more freedom and influence, 
because of longer experience and more extended knowledge of 
the subjects. 

Close application to study—in addition to the effects of his 
earlier indiscretions in novel reading—so impaired his vision as 
to terminate his college course in a most unexpected and yet not 
wholly disappointing manner. 

While having noted the eminent success of many who pos¬ 
sessed no diplomas from schools or colleges, he was desirous of 
the prestige their possession brings. 

As principal of the schools he began teaching in a flourishing 
town near Plainwell. Ere the winter passed he was called to 
the pastorate of a church whose minister—in a runaway acci¬ 
dent—had sustained a broken limb. Ere he had expected, 
therefore, he found himself entering upon his life work—a work 
that had been uppermost in his mind from the hour when he 
ceased to plead his inability to preach, and a joyful impulse fol¬ 
lowed, awakening a burning desire for the time to come when 
he could begin to “break the bread of life” to men. 


[ 170 ] 




Go Work In My Vineyard 

Another event occurred—during the winter that found him 
employed as “teacher” and “preacher”—which was to bring 
increased happiness to Mr. Seely. 

Several years had passed since his great bereavement cast 
its shadow on his heart and home. Rosamond had come with 
the light of her presence; still—while always welcome—he felt 
he was but a guest in his own house; when she went to her own 
home on the east farm and he became master of his again— 
while efficiently served by domestics—Edward and Martin ob¬ 
served it was not the home, nor their father’s the happiness 
enjoyed while Mrs. Seely lived. 

Walter had often wished and prayed that—in the event of 
his father’s second marriage—he might be led to choose a wife 
of mature years; one with sound intelligence and ripe stores of 
knowledge; whose heart was actuated by deep religious prin¬ 
ciples, based upon a thorough love for God and firm faith in and 
familiarity with the Bible and the church. ' 

Especially did he desire these things for his own sake; also 
that the good work his own mother’s Christian experience had 
begun in their home might be taken up and carried forward by 
the one who should come to take her place. 

He had indulged the fanciful wish that dignity of personal 
form and attractive features—although not essentials—might 
be associated with the more important qualities. 

As the holidays approached, Mr. Seely wrote to Walter, in¬ 
viting him to come and meet her whom he—after the years of 
waiting—had chosen to fill the place of wife and mother in his 
home. 

Edward met Walter at the depot; during the homeward ride 
he made numerous inquiries of his older brother concerning her 
whom he was so soon to call by a name more dear than any 
which he had uttered—in such a sense—for many years. He 
was greatly encouraged in his expectations by the words of 
commendation spoken by Edward concerning her in answer to 
his questions. 

Whatever apprehensions he might have had, lest he should 
feel a sense of strangeness when first meeting her; whatever 


[ 171 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


mental pictures he had formed concerning his new mother— 
her appearance at the door to greet him; her matronly form, her 
face, wreathed in smiles—outburst of a heart filled with good¬ 
ness and love—bridged all distance of feeling and he passed over 
at one step to enter—with all his heart—her affectionate em¬ 
brace and receive her greeting kiss and welcome; while he, in 
turn, imprinted filial kisses upon her cheeks—cheeks more 
beautiful than he had hoped to see. 

He took occasion to say playfully in his new mother’s pres¬ 
ence after he had shaken hands and greeted other members of 
the family: “I congratulate you, father, on your choice! I 
congratulate us all! I trust mother will not have occasion to 
regret her coming among us!” 

The word “mother” which he spoke—which he had heard 
so often within those walls in the years just past—uttered in 
tones of death and sadness—now resounded with life, and proph¬ 
esied home and happiness for his father in the years to come. 
In Walter’s mind here again was “home.” When absent, his 
thoughts could turn hither. When present, it would be the 
center of the universe—“home”—to him. 

What a Christmas dinner was that which feasted the family 
gathering at Sanford Seely’s farm house the next day 
after Walter’s arrival! Fruits, fowls, vegetables; the cream 
from the farm dairy and golden butter; relishes and desserts— 
rich and numerous. The table fairly groaned under its burden. 

What a company was assembled. Mr. Seely—as reserved as 
ever, though radiant and cheerful—seated to serve at the 
center of the long table; Mrs. Seely—revered hostess and hon¬ 
ored guest—in her place opposite her husband; Rosamond and 
Clarence, with their children—another little son having come 
to gladden his father’s heart; Edward and Martin sitting next; 
Aunt Carrie and her daughters were there, and numerous other 
relatives and friends. 

Walter was seated at the head of the table by the side of his 
father’s aged mother—then nearing her “four-score years and 
ten”—eyes undimmed and quick to hear—full of mirth as any 
present. 


[ 172 ] 


Go Work In My Vineyard 

When all was in readiness Mr. Seely said to Walter: “My son, 
will you please return thanks?” 

What an occasion for thanksgiving! What experiences and 
expectations! What memories came rushing in upon his mind! 
He could hardly crowd into the limits of an ordinary “blessing” 
an expression of the fullness of gratitude which came welling 
up from his heart. 

Other hearts than his own were evidently stirred with simi¬ 
lar emotions; in many eyes the tears were glistening. 

It was a feast to be remembered, not for the pleasures of the 
palate alone, but as the occasion when new ties and friendships 
were formed—old ones strengthened. The dinner and the day 
soon over, the holidays gone, Walter returned to his work in 
school and pulpit—visiting Mrs. Wellington and Maud on the 
way. 

During the following weeks, Claude Sharon came from Lock- 
wood to visit him, strong as ever in his faith and devotion. 

Notwithstanding his struggle against poverty and a lurking 
consumption—deprived of educational advantages—he had 
acquired a rare mental training and fund of knowledge by im¬ 
proving his spare moments. He had come to tell Walter of his 
growing conviction of duty and willing surrender to preach the 
gospel. 

“Fate seems to have been against me, Walter,” he remarked, 
as they strolled, arm in arm, away from the town to the woods 
beyond; “but if I have only one talent and one opportunity to 
use it, I am resolved to do my best.” 

“You have this to encourage and help you, Claude,” said 
Walter, “if you have not a classical education it is very practical 
and quite diversified. Your love for and familiarity with the 
Scriptures and your habits of prayer are first , last and always the 
best qualifications for preaching the gospel. Without these all 
other endowments and acquirements will not insure ministerial 
success, according to the Divine ideal. 

“I have volumes of Spurgeon’s sermons which I read with 
great profit. I love to notice that, while they do not exhibit the 
intellectual strength and mental training displayed by some 


[ 173 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

i 

ministers, they glow with the reflection of a mind and heart 
divinely illumined. 

“Then there is that young man in Chicago—D. L. Moody— 
who is exerting such an influence and developing great faith and 
pulpit power. I will not be surprised if he astonishes all Chris¬ 
tendom with his achievements in preaching the gospel. But he 
is very illiterate. When I heard him I was wonderfully moved 
in spirit although greatly annoyed by his improper use of verbs 
and pronouns. 

“It was the influence of his short address to the students that 
sent me home from college last year to hold ‘ open-air meetings ’ 
in Lockwood. He urged that we employ unusual methods, if 
people cannot be won to Christ through the ordinary means. 

“Forgetting my youth and that I would be ‘a prophet in 
my own country,’ I went to win—if I might— a few, at least, 
of my friends and early associates to that Saviour who has done 
so much for me.” 

“Your coming,” remarked Claude, “did me a much needed 
good—leading me to the decision of which I told you as to my 
life work. I heard many testify to the blessings received, so 
that, instead of losing honor, you gained it by coming.” 

”1 was pleased,” said Walter, “to see good old Deacon Cox 
in the audience that thronged into the church after the ‘open-air 
services.’ He was my first Sunday school teacher; he seemed to 
drink in every word I said and sanction it, just as I did when he 
taught me my first lessons in Sunday school. 

“You must keep up good courage, Claude! You will be 
guided! To be good is better than to be great! To be saved 
is better than to be rich!” 

Claude returned to Lockwood. Walter soon after completed 
his school teaching engagement and resigned his pulpit work to 
the regular minister who had recovered from his injury. While 
returning to his father’s home he visited Mary Pendleton. 
The few delightful hours thus spent with his former teacher 
were never to be repeated. Her life work terminated after a 
few more years of usefulness. In his mind and character, 
Walter realized he bore some of the fruits of her faithful teaching. 


[ 174 ] 


Go Work In My Vineyard 

At home on the farm he found much needed rest in change of 
labor from the study and school room to that among the flocks 
and in the fields. 

While thus engaged, a “call”—that seemed like an inspira¬ 
tion—came from a church in the suburbs of a large city. To 
accept would mean, possibly, a failure to resume his college 
studies; in this he was helped to a prompt decision by the con¬ 
dition of his eyes, which, thus far, medical skill had failed to 
restore. 

To accept would take him far from home and friends. At 
this point he hesitated; but prayer enlarged his vision and he 
was made to feel—as never before—where God is. His servant 
is “at home,” and God is everywhere. After that he could 
as cheerfully have accepted a call to China or the Islands of 
the Sea as the one he did now willingly accept. Although yet 
two years under his “majority,” his father cheerfully relin¬ 
quished every claim he may have legally had upon his time or 
labor. Fondly hoping his college days were not ended he 
began preparing for his departure. 

The rush of summer harvesting was over, in which he had 
been assisting his father and brothers. As he returned for the 
last time from the fields, he rested himself at the old well curb 
and cast a glance over their broad expanse. Many a point and 
object recalled an incident—a pleasant experience or a painful 
accident. 

Yonder was where he stood when a neighbor boy hunting 
with him accidentally discharged a gun—the contents of which 
tore up the ground almost under Walter’s feet. It seemed to 
him at the time like an averted judgment sent to warn him 
against Sabbath desecration. 

Yonder, the well, from which—with pole and pail—he had 
drawn water for the thirsty herds and flocks hot summer days— 
the well into which also the old white family horse had fallen, 
nearly carrying him with her, and from which the poor beast 
was extricated with greatest difficulty. 

Often had he rested for a few moments—peeping between 
the pages of a book—escaping the scorching rays of the sun 


[ 175 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


under the shade of that old tree—standing in the meadow stub¬ 
ble, like a lone sentinel, to defy the cyclones and lightnings that 
had twisted its branches and riven its trunk. How many times 
he had held the plow handles—even when so small he reached 
his hands up to grasp them—walking in the furrowed path, 
watching the plowshare turn the flat, green sod so gracefully, 
with neither stump nor stone to hinder. 

What a time for reflection and communion with nature 
had it been, as the horses plodded slowly across the level fields! 

There stood the fence—almost every post a writing desk—on 
which he had placed his note book to jot down his reflections 
and arguments, when he came to the end of a furrow or corn 
row—at noon or evenings to be written out for use in college 
orations or debates, sermons and addresses. Around how many 
spots clustered sweet recollections of spiritual victories, while 
kneeling between the tall corn rows in prayer, while the horse 
stood quietly resting—in brute ignorance of the heavenly trans¬ 
ports of a human soul when blessed of God. 

One more picture—memory’s hand portrayed before his 
mind—was that scene on summer afternoons when—accom¬ 
panied by their mother—Rosamond, Martin and he had strolled 
through the meadows, gathering wild strawberries for supper. 

The chirrup of the meadow lark; the trill of the bob-o-link; 
the whir-r-r of the quail or prairie hen, frightened from their 
nests, then alighting to flutter away like a wounded bird, to 
lead the pursuers from their treasures; the hum of the bees 
among the clover blossoms and wild roses; then the delight of 
the weary harvesters as they sat down to refresh themselves at 
the evening meal, with the relish of strawberries, white with 
sugar and covered with cream from the cool cellar; the perfume 
of wild flowers in the old pitcher on the mantle, filling the room; 
all this—and more—were things of the past, never to come 
to him again—never. 

All the pleasant views before him would soon be out of 
sight, to be seen only as photographed on memory’s page; and 
yet, as he awoke from his reverie, Walter said reverently, “not 
my will, but Thine be done!” As he stepped out from the calm, 


[ 176 ] 











“SANFORD SEELY” 
“The Aged Retired Farmer” 

(See Page 255) 









Go Work In My Vineyard 


cool shadow of the old well curb into the sunlight he said aloud, 

“Where He leads, 

I’ll follow, follow everywhere.” 

Gathering a handful of ripe cherries as he passed the trees— 
which he had assisted his father and Edward in planting—he 
entered the house and prepared for dinner, after which his step¬ 
mother—with a kindness of manner, a union of blood could not 
have excelled—prepared his linen for packing in his trunk, after 
which he went to spend a few hours with Rosamond in her 
home on the adjoining farm. He found her alone. Clarence 
and his hired man had gone to the field. The children were 
in the bedroom asleep. 

“As I am to engage so soon in regular church work, I thought 
I would make a ‘pastoral call’ on you, Rosamond, before going 
away,” Walter said, laughingly, as he entered the open door 
and dropped upon the sofa, near which his sister was sitting with 
her sewing. 

“I am glad you have come; ministers do not come here very 
often—only one, in fact, has called since we moved into this 
house almost three years ago,” she said, sadly. 

“Rosamond, do the ministers in Lockwood know you would 
like to have them call?” Walter inquired. 

“Why—no!” she answered; “they do not know much about 
us. We seldom ever attend church. I suppose that accounts 
for their not coming to see us.” 

“But why do you not attend public worship more?” asked 
Walter kindly. “Clarence has plenty of horses and an easy 
carriage; your children are small, it is true; others take children 
to church equally as small.” After waiting a moment for an 
answer, which she seemed reluctant to give, he added—as he 
looked through the open doorway toward Lockwood—“how 
plainly you can see the church spires!” 

“Yes,” she replied, “they can be seen very plainly. When I 
hear the bells ringing on quiet Sunday mornings I wish it were so I 
could go; but”—she hesitated, as if struggling with some¬ 
thing she wished to say, yet shrank from uttering it. 

“But what, Rosamond?” asked Walter. “It certainly can- 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


not be a matter of dress, for the people at the church where Mr. 
Vinton preaches are very plain, although abundantly able to 
dress elegantly; they do not think the church a place for dis¬ 
play, but to worship God. You certainly can dress as well as 
they do!” 

“No, Walter,” she answered, “it is not a matter of dress. 
You remember after our little boy died Clarence took me to 
church quite often; when he began working so hard—plowing 
and sowing—he felt very weary Sunday mornings and began to 
neglect it. I am sure we were better and happier for going. 
If you leave us, Walter, I do not know what will become of us!” 

“I am sorry, Rosamond,” said Walter. “I have often re¬ 
gretted that Clarence did not unite with the temperance society 
in Lockwood. I invited him to do so, but he said he feared he 
could not keep the pledge. What does he think about it now?” 

“He does not say much about it,” she replied; then—after a 
moment’s pause—added: “I do wish it was not so far to Plain- 
well, so he could do his trading there, where they have no sa¬ 
loons or taverns into which men can be persuaded to go and 
drink liquor.” 

“If everyone would sign the pledge, Rosamond, they would 
not enter the saloons, nor drink intoxicating beverages,” sug¬ 
gested Walter. 

“They would not if they kept their pledge,” Rosamond re¬ 
plied; “but when a man has an appetite for alcoholic drink it is 
very hard to control himself when he sees or smells it. You 
know there are men standing ready to offer it to him and coax— 
even threaten—until he yields! When a man has tried to keep 
his promise to abstain, and has failed so often, he becomes dis¬ 
couraged—especially when the craving and temptation to drink 
are ever present.” 

Observing how greatly Rosamond was troubled by the 
thoughts awakened by the trend of their conversation, Walter 
led her mind in other channels. When the little children had 
awakened he spent another hour enjoying a merry romp with 
them. Returning home in time for tea he finished packing his 
trunk, after which his father drove with him to Lockwood. 


[ 178 ] 


Go Work In My Vineyard 


All the farewells had been tearful, yet cheerful; their echoes 
sounded in his ears long after the train had borne him away 
from life-long friends to find a home and friends among 
strangers—fields also where he was to sow spiritual seed for 
spiritual harvests. 

One thought came to him over and again—growing out of 
Rosamond’s remarks. Had not Clarence given her painful 
proofs of what she had spoken? Was it not he who had so often 
promised her to abstain? A promise no more solemn and bind¬ 
ing when made to God than when a man makes it to his wife. 
Had he not as often broken his promise, lost his will power, 
and—feeling himself again the slave of appetite—yielded to 
each temptation ? Had she not been bearing her sorrow alone— 
pitying, forgiving, still loving the lover of her youth—the father 
of her children, while he was censured and cast off by others, 
who knew his course of life? Had not the ministers and Chris¬ 
tian people, on his account, ceased to call at their house, con¬ 
cluding—because he chose such company as he associated with— 
he did not care for theirs? Had not Rosamond suffered the 
consequences of her husband’s wrong doings and like him been 
neglected by good people? 

Out of these reflections Walter Seely evolved a practical les¬ 
son not taught at college from homiletic or theological text 
books. It suggested to him a line of duty; he resolved to fol¬ 
low. Sleeping and dreaming, waking and thinking, he passed 
the night while the train sped on under the silent stars. 

Now a stop; a bustle of passengers getting on or off the cars! 
Words of greeting and laughter; words of parting and tears! 

The sun and day came at length, and his journey’s end. He 
had been called to work; here was the vineyard. 


[ 179 ] 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Infidel and Invalid. 

The faces and names of those in his church, congregation 
and Sunday school soon became familiar to Walter as those of 
his own family at home. 

His youthful appearance interested those of mature years 
and evoked their sympathies, while he gained easy access to 
the young. Little children flocked around him; young men and 
women regarded him as a companion. The Sunday school in¬ 
creased in numbers and interest. The congregation filled the 
sanctuary; a revival spirit prevailed; soon large numbers were 
professing their hearts renewed and seeking admission to 
church fellowship. 

“I see vou have a new minister,” said Mr. Hall to one of the 
leading members of the church. 

“I surmised it was he, but his extremely youthful appearance 
surprised me when I met him coming from the postoffice. He 
appears, however, to be a very genial young gentleman. I shall 
be pleased to form his acquaintance and have a talk with him.” 

So saying—with a peculiar smirk upon his face and a tone in 
his voice bordering on sarcasm—he passed into the City Na¬ 
tional Bank, of which he was the cashier. Walter Seely was 
informed that Mr. Hall was a shrewd business man, but 
strictly honest in all his transactions. 

His domestic relations were harmonious and beautiful. 
Mrs. Hall had become an invalid during the earlier years of 
her marriage and motherhood. The intelligent faith and piety 
that marked her girlhood remained and added beauty and 
strength to her womanhood, notwithstanding her bodily frailty. 

Her children were her pride and joy. Her husband was kind 
but he did not enjoy the spirituality that marked her life nor did 
he accept her views concerning religion. He bitterly opposed 


[ 180 ] 



Infidel and Invalid 


churches and ministers; he read the Bible and attended church 
occasionally, only to criticise and ridicule both; hence his ex¬ 
pressed desire to become acquainted with the young minister 
was that he might engage him in a controversy and add another 
to the long list of clergymen whom he had worsted—as he 
claimed—in argument concerning the Bible, and persons and 
institutions connected with it. 

Nor were his victories mere assumptions, for again and again 
had one minister after another been compelled to retreat before 
the just and truthful accusations brought by Mr. Hall 
against the misconduct of many church members, and even 
some ministers, or the latter had found themselves unable to 
answer his many questions and arguments presented to them, 
with a seemingly sincere desire to know the truth. Their 
failure to meet his inquiries satisfactorily resulted in their own 
humiliation and increased the arrogant feelings and manner of 
Mr. Hall. 

Walter Seely had recently come from college and a short time 
spent in teaching. Although but twenty years of age, he had 
received and accepted a “call” to become the pastor of the 
suburban church in K-. 

Hardly a fortnight had passed when he and one of his parish¬ 
ioners—while walking along a main avenue—met Mr. Hall; 
after an introduction by their mutual acquaintance and a few 
common-place remarks, Walter discovered something in the 
manner of the dignified appearing business man before him, that 
seemed to chill him through and through. It was not the absence 
of an apparent cordiality, nor of language that possessed the 
tokens of a gentleman and scholar. 

The brief interview ended—the young pastor and his friend 
went on their way calling on various members of the church. 
After leaving Mr. Hall, however, Walter could not forbear 
inquiring particularly about him and was informed that he was 
a pronounced unbeliever relative to the Bible and Christianity. 
He was the head and active leader of a band of skeptics residing 
in the city. 

Feeling his knowledge and experience were so limited he was 


[ 181 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


not qualified to cope successfully with so formidable an opponent 
in argument, Walter studiously avoided meeting him under any 
circumstances that were likely to lead to a profitless discussion. 

He became deeply interested in and concerned for Mr. Hall 
however; he prayed and invited several others to unite with him 
that by some means God would remove unbelief from the in¬ 
fidel’s mind and heart. 

The faith of each was greatly strengthened; their joy was 
angelic when at length the answer to their prayers was clearly 
shown. 

To Walter the increasing attendance of young people at the 
church service was an inspiration. The preceding summer 
months had been full of song and gladness for them under the 
leadership of P. P. Bliss, the celebrated singer and writer of gos¬ 
pel hymns. The well trained voices of so many added greatly 
to the drawing influence of the union revival services, con¬ 
ducted by the young minister and the white-haired pastor of 
another church, during which most of the young people not 
formerly Christians took their stand for a Christian life. A new 
note of gladness entered their singing insomuch that their 
great song leader, who came to spend a short season among 
them, exclaimed: “I thought last summer you young people 
sang like angels, but now you sing with the joy of archangels.” 

As the interest deepened at the church and spread through 
the city the aged people and invalids who could not attend 
church were reached by holding “cottage meetings” at their 
homes. 

Out of regard for his wife—whom he fondly loved—Mr. Hall 
consented to her inviting such a meeting to be held in their 
home, although he absented himself on the plea of business. 
The angelic face, the deeply spiritual prayer and testimony 
from the lips of Mrs. Hall spoken with a voice so confident and 
tender—produced an impression that fell like a benediction on 
those who thronged her beautiful home that midwinter after¬ 
noon. To each and all her patient submission in suffering— 
such as they were strangers to—was an object lesson of the 
Saviour’s sustaining love. All felt that only one thing was 


[ 182 ] 


Infidel and Invalid 


lacking, at which she had vaguely hinted—her husband’s con¬ 
version—to cause her cup of joy to overflow. Their little 
daughter was heaven’s appointed messenger to lead her father 
into the kingdom. 

Week after week the revival services continued with unabated 
interest. From the first Mr. Hall studiously withheld his 
presence, which caused the faith of many who were praying 
for him to waver. On the last night, however, before the extra 
services closed, the congregation was amazed to see him enter 
the church door. 

Holding in his, the clinging hand of his little ten-year-old 
daughter, Nellie, he followed the usher to one of the few re¬ 
maining vacant pews at the front of the church. 

An expression of hope and renewed assurance spread over 
the faces of those who had been united in prayer for him. On 
Nellie’s countenance was an unspeakable look of happy triumph. 

Alone with her mother, she also had prayed for her father. 
In the children’s meetings, conducted each day by the young 
pastor—assisted by the aged minister’s wife, as well as in the 
crowded church at night, her gentle, childish voice had been 
heard again and again in prayer or confessing the Saviour’s 
love, with a sweetness and power that melted strong men and 
women to tears. 

“What a wonderful child!” “How sweet!” “Heaven bless 
her!” Such were the half audible exclamations heard in the 
pews and pulpit as the people and pastors listened to her. 

A profound solemnity rested on the congregation as the 
services proceeded. Even the volume of joyful song seemed 
burdened with an undertone of deep yearning for the unsaved— 
especially for the one whose presence awakened the query in 
many minds whether he had been drawn there as an interested 
inquirer in answer to their prayers, or had he come to please 
his wife and child, meanwhile gathering new material for argu¬ 
ment and criticism at the Infidel Club? 

The young minister finished his sermon; he paused a mo¬ 
ment, then broke the prevailing stillness by asking all who would 
to bow in silent prayer. 


[ 183 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


His eyes were filled with tears as he glanced over the bowed 
heads of the congregation. Here and there he saw a few men 
and women sitting upright—among them was Mr. Hall. 
With trembling voice the minister said: 

‘‘My friends! Will you who feel that you are not Christians 
decide now to come with us? We are your friends. We wish 
you each to enjoy what has done others so much good. Your 
Saviour is waiting to welcome you to the enjoyment of His love 
and service. Will you rise in your places for a moment, thus 
expressing your desire and purpose?” 

One after another responded. 

Taking one of his hands in hers, little Nellie, with a smile, 
looked up into her father’s face and whispered loud enough to 
be heard in the pulpit: “Papa! Won’t you please rise and 
stand with me?” 

A dark frown shadowed his face, as he looked down at her 
and shook his head. She drew her hands from his, as if she had 
been hurt; covering her face with them her little body shook 
with emotion and scarcely suppressed sobs while her tears fell 
upon the Bible lying in her lap. 

A strange expression and deathly paleness passed over the 
face of Mr. Hall. He trembled violently, as the appeals, 
in a few kindly spoken words still came from the lips of the 
minister. Again Nellie became calm and raised her tear-stained 
face toward her father’s; taking his hand in hers as before, she 
said: “Papa! You will stand up for Jesus with me now, won’t 
you?” 

He looked into her face for a few seconds, then bowed his 
consent, and father and child stood up together. 

As those who were standing resumed their seats, the congre¬ 
gation joined in a song of gladness led by the young minister. 
At the close of the service many were the warm-hearted “hand¬ 
shakes” extended to Mr. Hall as he passed from the church 
with his little daughter, whose face was radiant with joy. Just 
as he was passing out of the door, he said to Walter, who was 
there speaking to each person who passed out: 

“Mr. Seely! I have done a strange thing for me tonight; I 


[ 184 ] 


Infidel and Invalid 


hardly know what to think of myself. I desire, however, to 
thank you for the interest you have manifested in my family; 
I shall be pleased to have you take tea with us tomorrow 
evening.” 

In fulfillment of his acceptance of the invitation, Walter— 
hoping for the best, yet with misgivings as to what the result 
might be, went at the appointed hour to the home of Mr. Hall. 

Nellie met him at the door and ushered him into the parlor, 
where her mother was reclining upon a couch. Although very 
feeble, she found strength to shake his hand cordially and 
express the joy the knowledge of her husband’s act the night 
before had caused her to feel. 

Mr. Hall soon entered the room; in a very subdued manner 
he most politely greeted and helped entertain their guest during 
the social hour and at the tea that followed. 

At the close of the entertainment Mr. Hall, accompanied 

by Nellie and her little brother, invited Walter into the library. 

On the book shelves were volumes of poetry, history, science, 

well interspersed with works of noted so-called “Freethinkers.” 

When thev were seated Mr. Hall said to his visitor: 

*/ 

“Mr. Seely! A new desire and sense of duty has taken pos¬ 
session of me during the past month. I cannot account for it. 
My theories of life and religion have faded away; the arguments 
with which I sought to fortify myself and attack the Bible, 
church and ministry seem to lack strength. 

“I once thought my position impregnable, but I often wondered 
why the great humane movements of the age, which every 
honest person interested in what makes for the betterment of 
mankind, must admire, are mostly originated and fostered by 
ministers and churches and those in accord with them. 

“Again I must admit that—with rare exceptions—y our church 
people are among our best citizens. Indeed, in my own home, 
I have two living arguments against my views which I have 
been free to express publicly against the Bible, Christianity and 
prayer.” 

He cast an admiring glance at his young daughter standing 
by his side—as if she was one of the “arguments”—and added: 


[ 185 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“I have often wondered how my wife could endure her suffer¬ 
ings and still maintain a disposition so patient and a manner so 
gentle, unless, after all my doubting and denials, there is an 
unseen Power that affords her strength in answer to prayer. 
Admitting these things, I cannot honestly antagonize nor 
neglect them any longer. 

“But, sir!” he exclaimed, with a tone of agony in his voice, 
“it is a crucifixion, like death to me, to humble my pride and 
openly confess my errors and embrace and defend that which I 
have opposed so long. How can I do it? ” 

He remained silent for a moment, then gave way to violent 
weeping. His children were alarmed to see their father weep. 

Walter Seely, who had never witnessed such an exhibition of 
mental anguish, sat silently praying for wisdom to guide this 
strong-minded man, now so broken-hearted. 

Nellie put her arms around her father’s neck and said, sooth¬ 
ingly: “Papa! Jesus will help you; I asked Him last night to 
help you stand in church and He did. When the revival began 
mamma and I and many others united to pray that you might 
think differently, and you do. 

“One night last week I dreamed you were a Christian. I was 
so happy I woke up; I was sorry it was only a dream. I arose 
and knelt on my bed while you and mamma were asleep. 

“I -looked out of the window; the moon was shining so 
brightly it seemed as if I could look right into heaven. I 
prayed that you might be converted during this revival and-” 

“Yes, my little angel,” Mr. Hall exclaimed, interrupting 
her with trembling voice, “I remember it; I heard you praying, 
‘dear Jesus, won’t you please convert my papa and take away 
his unbelief.’ 

“When you had fallen asleep again, I got up and walked the 
floor until daylight, thinking and wishing I enjoyed the faith 
and comfort you and your mamma possess! But can I?” 

Walter Seely listened to this conversation. While he felt 
the child was a safe guide to her father, he said: 

“Mr. Hall, the way may appear dark and the cross seem 
heavy, but Christ said: ‘If any man will do the will of God, he 


[ 186 ] 



Infidel and Invalid 


shall know the doctrine;’ again He said, ‘he that confesseth 
Me before men, him will I confess before My Father which is in 
Heaven. ’ 

“Are you willing to follow the leadings of God, ‘who worketh 
in you to will and to do of His good pleasure?’ Will you also 
accept Jesus Christ as your Saviour and confess Him before 
men?” 

Calming his emotions, Mr. Hall crossed the room and ex¬ 
tending his hand to Walter, who clasped it in both of his, he said: 
“Mr. Seely, I will, and I implore you to continue to unite with 
my wife and child in prayer to God that I may have courage and 
strength to do right and undo as far as may be the wrongs I 
have done. 

“The church bell is now ringing; I will accompany you to 
church and by God’s help I will publicly announce my change of 
ideas and my new life purposes.” 

It was a fearful and heroic struggle to do so, but faithfully 
he kept his promise, to the great joy of the church and the sur¬ 
prise and consternation of those whom he had led in infidelity. 

With a peace of mind and sense of right he had never felt 
before, Mr. Hall returned to his home that night. Before the 
family retired he called for a Bible, saying: “I am resolved to 
seek Christ until I find Him. I will begin reading the Bible 
with you.” 

Turning to the fifty-first Psalm he read it slowly, verse after 
verse—his emotions at times choking his utterance. 

When he had finished the reading he knelt with the children, 
while his wife, reclining on her invalid couch, led in a fervent 
prayer. Nellie’s childish voice followed her mother’s. No 
sooner had she ceased than Mr. Hall, for the first time in his 
life, called on God aloud in prayer—a prayer full of sorrow and 
confession; his tears flowed freely; he utterly forgot his sur¬ 
roundings. 

At last the clouds cleared from his spiritual sky; the burden 
that weighed so heavily upon his conscience rolled away; the 
moments passed unheeded as his confession turned to prayer 
and supplication and then broke forth in joyful thanksgiving. 


[ 187 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


An hour had passed since he knelt to pray. He rose to his feet 
to find his children calmly sleeping by the chairs at which they 
had knelt, while his wife lay in a swoon. 

The unspeakable joy that had come to her after the long 
“deferred hope, that had made her heart sick,” was too much 
for her weak condition; she had fainted. 

Filled with alarm lest his new found joy should prove to be 
the forerunner of a great sorrow, he hastened to feel her pulse 
and heart; taking courage to hope for the best when he felt 
them feebly beating he hastily procured and administered 
restoratives. Ere long she opened her eyes; recalling w T hat had 
occurred, as her strength returned, she whispered into her hus¬ 
band’s ears fitting words of encouragement and comfort. 

He awakened the children and helped them prepare for bed 
and needed sleep. 

As for him and his wife, it seemed there was no sleep. Their 
joy was too great; they had come to know and love each other 
as never before. 

The gulf that long had separated them was bridged. Their 
otherwise happy home seemed to be taking on the impress and 
influence of eternal joy. The following day was the beginning 
of days in their family life; days that grew brighter and brighter, 
even beneath the shadows of suffering and losses that seemed to 
multiply upon them as never before. 

Mr. Hall bravely but humbly proclaimed his new found 
faith and happiness. His influence grew and was felt for 
good, far and near as the years went by. 

When Mrs. Hall passed to her reward it was a sad parting, 
yet bright with the hope of meeting again in realms of eternal 
day, and not the sad separation of an “Infidel and Invalid.” 


[ 188 ] 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


Out of the Snare. 

In the midst of this awakening Walter observed most of the 
young men of the congregation were making but little advance¬ 
ment in the way of reform and religion. i 

He soon had painful proofs that many of them were fre¬ 
quenting saloons, gambling and drinking. 

A few had risen in the public meetings and in other ways 
expressed a desire to become Christians. Leaving the church 
with deep concern expressed upon their faces they would return 
the following evening with an air of indifference. 

Deeply perplexed for a time as to the cause, he finally hit upon 
the true solution and for a remedy resolved upon a certain 
course of action. Accosting one of the young men before the 
service began he said to him privately: 

“Will you and the other young men come to my rooms 
after the services close tonight?” 

“We—yes—well—to tell the truth, we can’t very well, Mr. 
Seely!” he replied, as his face flushed deeply. “We have an 
engagement tonight.” 

“Why not let me go with you, then? The boys told me the 
other day they would count me in as one of their number when 
they were going to have a jolly time!” remarked Walter with a 
quiet laugh. 

“All right then,” remarked the young man, coloring still 
more deeply as Walter pressed the matter. 

“Will you tell the others and wait for me until the congre¬ 
gation is gone?” W T alter requested of him. 

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and Walter entered the pulpit to con¬ 
duct the services of the evening. At the close he found the 
young man waiting for him in the vestibule. 

“Where are the rest of the young men?” Walter inquired, as 
they stepped out upon the walk. 


[ 189 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


“They have gone, Mr. Seely. I will go and spend the rest 
of the evening with you alone. The others wished me to have 
you excuse them/’ the young man answered and was about to 
turn the corner leading toward Walter’s room. 

Not to be thwarted thus—concluding no principle of courtesy 
would be violated, a sense of duty to rescue the tempted ones 
from danger impelling him—he said, pleasantly: 

“That is not fair, Johnnie! ‘The more the merrier!’ If you 
and I were going to have a nice time somewhere we would want 
them present. If they are having a jolly time we want to be 
with them! Is not that fair?” 

“It seems so!” the young man replied. 

“Well, then, let us go and find them!” saying which Walter 
slipped his arm through that of his companion and turned down 
the business street; they found the stores all closed. Passing 
several places where liquor was sold—hearing no noise inside— 
they went on until they came to an open door at the foot of a 
stairway opening on a back street and leading to an upper 
room. 

“Ah, ha, this is the place!” said Walter, as they heard fa¬ 
miliar voices. “You lead the way and I will follow.” 

Thus urged, the young man began reluctantly to ascend the 
stairs. 

“ You will stand by me, won’t you, Johnnie?” Walter asked of 
him, in a half audible voice, when part way up the stairs. 

For the first time he began to realize into what possible dif¬ 
ficulties and dangers he might be entering; before he could re¬ 
ceive an answer, he heard someone say in a bantering tone, 
“Hello, Johnnie! Have you come? Where is Brother 
Seely?” Several voices took up the inquiry as the young man 
reached the head of the stairs that opened directly into the 
room. 

“He is coming!” was the half indignant, half laughing reply. 

“Yes, here I am, boys!” said Walter, as his head rose above 
the floor and his eyes took in at a single glance a large, low room. 
In one front corner was a bar and shelves filled with bottles. 
A burly looking Irishman in his shirt sleeves was mixing some- 


[ 190 ] 


Out Of The Snare 


thing to drink. Fancy pictures were hanging upon the walls— 
mostly cheap prints of the “nude in art.” 

In another corner was a stove; in another a table, around 
which sat a dozen young men, of ages ranging from fifteen to 
twenty years, some of whom were playing cards, the rest looking 
on, wdiile all were smoking cigars or pipes. 

By the stove sat a miserable wreck of a man—bloated and 
blear-eyed, red faced and ragged. Walter had seen him during 
the day, going from house to house, with a “kit” of old tools 
seeking odd jobs of mending tinware. 

Quicker than it can be told the cards were swept into a 
drawer; the cigars and pipes were extinguished and hidden 
by the young men as soon as they caught a glimpse of Walter 
following their companion. 

The bartender—who was also the proprietor of the miserable 
resort—looked from behind his bar to see who his new customer 
might be. 

Stepping up in front of his bar, Walter extended his hand 
cordially. As the man slowly gave his hand in return—casting 
a look of surprise from under his shaggy eyebrows—Walter said: 
“How do you do, Mr. Fagan?” meantime shaking his hand 
vigorously across the bar. 

“This is Mr. Seely, our minister!” said Walter’s companion, 
addressing Fagan. 

“How is yer Riverence?” the saloon keeper said, in reply to 
the introduction and Walter’s salutation. 

“The loikes of yees don’t come to me bar ivery day. To 
phwat can I trate yer Riverence?” he added, and began to set 
out the glasses and bottles. 

“No, I thank you, Mr. Fagan; I do not need anything to 
drink. I just came in to spend a short time with my young 
friends over there. They visit me at the church, where I am 
always glad to see them; I have come to return their compli¬ 
ment.” Walter said this in a half jocular tone, loud enough so 
all the young men could hear it, then added: ”1 suppose your 
house is open and free to all!” 

“Yis sor, yer Riverince! Onybody can cum and sthay 


[ 191 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


as long as they plase and ivery day in the wake!—if they kape 
orderly loike; but ef they gits n’isy I puts ’em out.” This re¬ 
ply was followed by a loud, coarse laugh from the speaker, 
after which he added: “The law is very stricht about n’ise; 
oive put mony a mon down thim sthairs for roaring about, 
then the ‘cops’ clapped ’em in the ‘cooler’ quicker’n a wink— 
and some of ’em wus illigint gintlemin”—then followed another 
coarse laugh and a knowing wink at Walter, as if in suggestive 
warning. His laugh seemed to be a self-applause, in laudation 
of his conduct as a law-abiding citizen. 

To insure his good will still further and gain his assistance in 
impressing a lesson upon his young friends, Walter increased his 
good humor by saying: “I suppose then, Mr. Fagan,I can re¬ 
main if I am ‘orderly;’ I shall be ‘put out’ if I am not?” 

“Yis soir ree, yer Riverince, and may the saints presairve 
us!” he answered, laughing. 

Turning away from the bar to join the group who had been 
listening to the conversation, Walter encountered the wretched 
man who had been sitting by the stove, but was just then 
coming to the bar, hoping to get his share if a free treat was to 
be offered. 

Seeing, however, that Walter had no intention of “treating 
the crowd” he leaned against the bar—fumbling in his pockets 
to find a dime to buy a drink. While the bartender was busy 
mixing it, Walter went across the room to talk with the young 
men. 

There he found the twin orphan boys who lived with their 
uncle; also Judge Schilling’s son, just returned from college. 
The parents of most of the group were church members. 

“Go on, boys, finish your game!” said Walter. “I cannot 
play, for I do not know one card from another; but I suppose 
you will let me look on?” 

“We are not playing cards, Mr. Seely,” said one of the boys, 
evasively. 

“No, I see you are not; I guess you were playing when I 
came in! What was it you put in the drawer? These marks 
on the table! What are they for? Here are two marks— 


[ 192 ] 


Out Of The Snare 


three—four—yonder seven. Well! well! Someone was get¬ 
ting ahead; too bad, boys, to spoil a victory! Why not finish 
the game?” 

All this was said by Walter in such a vein of good humor 
the boys—though very much ashamed—began to laugh. 

“ How did you know we came here , Mr. Seely? ” someone asked. 

“I did not know where you went, but I knew you went some¬ 
where after meeting to have a jolly time,” said Walter, “so I 
came here with Johnnie. If we are to be ‘boys’ together, what 
is good for you is good for me.” 

“What made you bring him?” Walter overheard one of the 
boys asking in an undertone. 

“I did not bring him; he brought himself and made me 
come along; it is a good joke on us, anyhow,” the other re¬ 
marked, and they both laughed softly. 

The bartender and his wretched customer now came and 
joined the group. 

“Do you have much business, Mr. Fagan?” Walter inquired, 
to ascertain if many people frequented the place. 

“Not ivery day, yer Riverence; but them as loikes the 
‘craythur’ comes rigelar and often,” he replied. 

“I suppose these boys are not very good customers at your 
bar are they? They come simply to visit and play games, 
do they not?” Walter further inquired. 

“Oi won’t decaive yer Riverince by saying as how they don’t 
dhrink a grate dale, for young lads of the loikes of thim, whin 
they cum here for their fun; but yees can ax ’em; the whoal 
caboodle of thim are rigelar sthovepoipes for schmokin wid the]r 
poipes and segars,” said Fagan—at which last remark the boys 
roared with laughter. 

“How is it, boys?” asked Walter, smiling—after the laugh 
had subsided—as he looked to see how they enjoyed the saloon¬ 
keeper’s affirmative answer—given in a negative form—to his 
question relative to their drinking habits. 

“Well, I can’t see any harm in an occasional glass,” said 
Edwin Morton—one of the twin brothers. “I believe that a 
person should stop though when he has enough.” 


f!93] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“That ish jus’ what I s’ink” (hie), said the “tinker,” whose 
drams had now begun to make him talkative and thick-tongued; 
“I don’t b’l’eve er man—orter (hie) sign er—way (hie) ’is 
lib’ty in this (hie) free—country.” 

After the first sentence the boys all began to look at their 
new ally, while he was delivering his opinion with “hies” and 
hesitations, given in endorsement of Edwin Morton’s state¬ 
ment. 

“Well, Edwin,” said Walter—somewhat ironically—“you 
have a strong endorser of your views,” at which remarks the 
rest of the boys then laughed again, loud and long. Fagan 
joined them in an uproarious voice. Edwin’s face turned scarlet 
with shame, because he had turned the laugh against himself. 
He was also filled with indignation toward the “tinker” for 
giving his stammering opinion unasked; but he—thinking the 
laughter was in approval of his remarks—took off his old hat, 
and—half rising in his chair—swung it over his head, shouting, 
“Hip! (hie) Hip! (hie) ’urrah—rah; set ’em up (hie) boys—” 
Walter became alarmed, lest a policeman should be attracted 
by the noise at that late hour and come to arrest the whole com¬ 
pany. After all had quieted down he said: 

“Seriously, Edwin! How much is ‘enough?’ Would your 
idea of ‘enough’ be this poor man’s present idea, whatever he 
thought or desired at your age? Would not your ‘occasional 
glass’ lead where Mr. Fagan intimated when he said, ‘those who 
love the creature will come often for it?’ ” 

“Yer roight, yer Riverince!” said Fagan—answering for 
Edwin—which Walter was very glad he did; “that’s the way 
it is; whin a young lad cums here a few toimes he soon begins 
to cum oftener and sthays longer. Isn’t that thrue, b’ys?” 
he asked, giving them a knowing wink and a wag of the head 
that told the whole story—of the wayward, rapidly downward 
course they had entered upon, notwithstanding the social and 
religious standing of most of their people, and the fact most 
every Sunday found all of them in Sunday school. Some of 
their friends had seen painful evidence of their dissipation 
when they were brought home in an intoxicated condition, but 


[ 194 ] 



Out Of The Snare 


no one seemed to know what to say or do to put an end to it. 
Beardless youths—all of them—under the growing spell of the 
drink habit, formed little by little; formed when unsuspecting 
parents little dreamed where they were so late at night; they, 
often accepting—as truth—any false answer or explanation 
rather than show distrust of their word—if they felt any—or 
be to any trouble to prove their statements true or false. 

The boys made no reply to Fagan’s last remark; all sat a few 
moments—each engaged with his own thoughts—while Walter 
turned to Fagan and conversed with him about his business, 
drawing from him the admission, “it is a bad one.” 

He was led to say further: “I know, yer Riverince, dhrink 
does a dale o’ harrum; I w’uld loike a more illigant thrade, 
but I must fade me woife and children an’ cloathe ’em up in 
stoile.” 

“But do you think it right for such as these, my young friends, 
to visit saloons, gamble and drink liquor. Would you like your 
boys to do it?” 

“Indade oi w’uld not!” he answered. “My ould woman 
bates thim ef she sees thim wid the corrick out o’ the bottle 
phwat we keeps at the house wid a dhrap in it—when we have 
a pain, you know, we takes a little.” 

Looking at his watch, Walter saw it was after eleven o’clock. 
Hastily rising, he was about to leave the room—after bidding 
Fagan and the boys good night—when the latter all arose and 
followed him silently down the stairs, having dropped their 
unsmoked cigars in the sawdust on the saloon floor and leaving 
the pitcher of sling untouched which Fagan was preparing for 
them when he entered. The saloonkeeper and the poor old 
victim of his traffic constituted the sole remaining occupants of 
the room. 

From the foot of the stairs the boys followed Walter until 
they reached the corner where he was to part from them. 

As he stood looking at them for a moment they gathered 
around him, hedging up his way so he could not proceed. He 
scrutinized their faces closely, uncertain—in the dim light of 
the street lamp under which they were standing—what they 


[ 195 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

were planning to do, almost wondering if they were intending 
to do him bodily harm. 

Finally Edwin Morton said: “Mr. Seely, I want to thank 
you for following us boys tonight. I am heartily ashamed of 
what you saw us doing. I have learned a lesson, however. 
While I was mad enough at that old ‘soak’ to kill him, the old 
fool showed me that my ideas of ‘moderate drinking’ would 
bring me just where the same views and practices have brought 
him.” 

“Yes,” said Johnnie Hamilton—who had accompanied Walter 
from the church to the saloon, “and didn’t Fagan give us all 
away? I for one propose to make a clean breast of the whole 
matter! I now promise you, Mr. Seely,” he added, offering 
his hand to Walter, who firmly grasped it, “you will not see me 
in a saloon again; I hope I have drunk my last glass of intoxi¬ 
cating liquor. I have been half drunk every day for six months, 
which is saying considerable for a boy only eighteen years old.” 

“So have I,” said Edwin Morton’s twin brother; “but now 
I join Johnny in his resolution.” 

He and each of the boys then shook hands with Walter, until 
it came Albert Shilling’s turn, who had that evening risen for 
prayers at the church; hesitating, he said: “Mr. Seely, I cannot 
do this alone and I know it! I don’t believe any of us boys can, 
unless we become Christians; that is what I want to be. Will 
you go somewhere and pray with us?” 

Thus addressed, Walter thought to ask the boys to his rooms, 
but feared it would waken the family. The hotels were not 
the proper places. The church was dark and cold, and he had 
no key. 

“Boys,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “God is every¬ 
where! W T e can pray here!” 

With bowed, uncovered heads, at the midnight hour—there, 
surrounded by that group, Walter Seely poured out his soul in 
prayer for them—each by name. 

He could hardly speak—his mind was so filled with anxious 
solicitude; his heart was, however, full of joy over the result— 
thus far—of the experience of the evening. 


[ 190 ] 



Out Of The Snare 


With a simple “good night,” they quietly separated, to meet 
often in coming days, when most of the boys had come to know 
the peace and moral power enjoyed by the young minister. 

Albert Schilling forcibly illustrated to his companions the 
importance and benefit of readiness for death, which soon came 
to him by the accidental discharge of a gun while hunting. 

The new life upon which they entered called into useful exer¬ 
cise the musical and mental gifts the boys possessed, that were 
being rapidly ruined by dissipation. 


[ 197 ] 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A Brand Plucked From the Burning. 

Passing up and down the streets of the great city near which 
he was preaching Walter became more and more impressed 
that ministers have much to do in restraining young men from 
frequenting saloons. He could not, however, fathom the wis¬ 
dom—or lack of wisdom—of a public policy that found it ad¬ 
visable to sanction and protect such places by licensing them. 
The moral, social, physical, financial and domestic consequences 
of their existence were bad—only bad. How could it be that 
the money received for license justified their existence, when 
the expenses, crime and sorrow they cause so far exceed the 
money received? 

He asked doctors, lawyers and business men for information. 
He studied statistics and reports; compared revenues from and 
cost produced by the liquor traffic—view it from whatever 
standpoint he would, one conclusion always forced itself upon 
his mind—the manufacture, the sale, the uses of alcoholic bever¬ 
ages, are wrong in principle, ruinous in practice; something 
not to be sanctioned and protected, but condemned and 
destroyed. 

As the months faded into years, the sad tidings came to Walter 
from Lockwood that one and another whom he had seen sign 
the pledge had violated it. The temptations had not been re¬ 
moved from before them. Wherever they went—to the post- 
office, the store, the grocery, their work, or on a visit—they 
must perchance pass the saloon doors; the fumes of beer and 
the odor of whiskey inflamed their appetite. 

Pretended friends stood ready, with smiles and blandish¬ 
ments, enticing them to take the fatal backward step. Those 
who had sought spiritual renewing after signing the pledge 
had stood firm against temptation, overcoming through a 


[ 198 ] 



A Brand Plucked From The Burning 

power—not human, but Divine—implanted within through 
faith, in answer to prayer. 

Those w r ho had relied upon their own strength, or the influ¬ 
ence of their social or domestic environments, had fallen. 
Walter began to lose much of that unbounded confidence which 
he had at first placed in the “pledge,” as a means—in the face 
of ordinary temptations—of saving the reformed drunkard 
from returning to his cups and evil company. 

The “pledge” he therefore came to consider ordinarily to be 
only a silken cord with which to bind the slumbering tiger— 
appetite. 

Not to rise again, it must be slain or bound by the overmas¬ 
tering power of Divine influence implanted in the heart. 

Among those whom he had seen happily converted under his 
ministry and received into the church was Mrs. Skains—a worse 
than widow—a drunkard’s wife. She was a middle-aged 
woman who often reminded him of Rosamond. 

Her family at the time consisted of a daughter—eleven years, 
a son—fifteen, and another—Willis—aged twenty, who was the 
main support of the family, while the younger children attended 
school near the church. The house of worship where Walter 
preached, often became so thronged with people, no more could 
enter; but, driving carriages and wagons near the open win¬ 
dows, they would listen to the preaching and join in song with 
the congregation within. 

Many present bore unmistakable signs of having led dissi¬ 
pated lives. 

On one occasion, while presenting—in as fervid a manner as 
he could command—the great goodness and mercy of the Di¬ 
vine Being and His power and willingness to save the lost from 
every sin—one of the most abject looking mortals he had ever 
beheld rose from his seat and staggered through the aisle to the 
pulpit where Walter was standing. Reaching out his trembling 
hands he seized hold of Walter’s. With an appealing look—full 
of doubt and wild despair and longing—he said, with a stam¬ 
mering voice: “Do you—th—ink, sir, He wo—uld do that 
f—or me?” 


[ 199 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


For a moment Walter stood and gazed into his face—so 
flushed and bloated; his watery eyes—so dull and bloodshot; 
at his uncombed hair; his ragged coat and pants—covered with 
mud. His beer ladened, whiskey fumed breath came into 
Walter’s face again and again. 

The audience looked on the scene with astonishment, some 
with disgust for the disturber of the quiet order of the service. 

“Could human help avail for him? If so, where were wife 
and children, parents or friends?” As these questions sped 
through Walter’s mind there came, like the lightning’s flash, 
the words, “vain is the help of man; vain this man’s own 
strength!” 

The poor suffering wretch broke the stillness of the moment 
by saying: “Oh, is there no help, no hope for me?” 

Again Walter seemed to hear a voice—speaking now in his 
inmost soul—saying in glorious tones: “He is able to save to 
the uttermost all who come unto God by Him.” 

Thrilled as with an inspiration by this sublime assurance— 
such as he had seldom felt before concerning another person’s 
privileges through grace—he looked upon the man, wrecked and 
ruined by strong drink; filled with pity and hope for him, he 
said—now taking the man’s hands in his own: “Yes, my poor, 
lost brother! Jesus died for you; God can save you and make 
you a pure and happy man!” 

“Oh, if he only would; I would give a thousand worlds if I 
had them,” he said, as he drew his hands from Walter’s; then 
putting them over his own face he sobbed aloud. 

Closing the Bible, without finishing his sermon, Walter said 
to the people: “Let us pray for this man and he shall be saved, 
though it shall be as a ‘ brand plucked from the burning ’ or ‘ one 
raised from the dead.’ ” 

Kneeling beside him, Walter said to the man, “make your 
confessions to God and join your prayers with ours.” 

For a few moments a volume of silent prayer ascended, 
the quiet broken only by the sobs of the man, and of some in the 
audience whose hearts had been touched by the tragic scene. 

All felt that before them was a man in a life and death strug- 


[ 200 ] 



A Brand Plucked From The Burning 

gle, endeavoring to escape from the coils of a pitiless destroyer. 
One after another prayed aloud with trembling voices and tearful 
earnestness for a display of Divine grace and power in the man’s 
salvation. 

The meeting closed, many asking—in whispered inquiries— 
“ who is he? ” But few seemed to know him; to Walter he was a 
total stranger; still he clung to him, desiring to learn more of 
him and his history. 

Feeling a hand upon his arm, Walter turned and saw Mrs. 
Skains—the mother, who, with her two sons and little daughter, 
had lately been added to his flock. Her daughter was standing 
by her side; a look of shame and dread was stamped upon their 
faces. 

“Do not mind him, Mr. Seely!” said the mother in whispered 
words; “he is beyond all help or hope because of drink. He is 
my husband. We have tried to save him, but have failed each 
time; there is no use trying again.” 

“But you have tried hitherto in your own power alone, as a 
woman and a wife—a weak mortal at best! ‘Vain is the help 
of man.’ Will you not try once more, in the exercise of the 
new found power, that has so lately come into your own soul 
and given you control over your own sins and self? Take him 
to your home once more, if only once!” Walter had addressed 
her in a voice, low and pleading, having turned away from the 
man. 

Her face softened; her little daughter—who heard the con¬ 
versation—cast an inquiring glance at her, half in hopes her 
mother would try once more to save him, and yet fear sprang 
up in her young heart when she looked at her wretched father. 

“I do not think Willis, my oldest son, will consent to his 
going home with us.” said Mrs. Skains. “He has wronged the 
poor boy so often; but I will ask him,” she added, and went in 
search of him near the church door. 

While she was gone Walter led her husband to a seat near 
the stove. His wife soon returned with her son, who said, very 
decidedly, in reply to Walter’s request: 

“Mr. Seely, it is no use! It is all time and sympathy thrown 


[ 201 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


away. Before I was born he was a drunkard; he has beaten 
and abused me and my brother and sister; he has wronged and 
impoverished and starved my mother in days gone by. Years 
ago he began to desert us, returning—only now and then—but 
to consume what we had saved. Mother toiled for me when I 
was helpless; now, while I am able to prevent it, she shall never 
suffer abuse nor want.” 

Walter could not help but admire the young man, for the 
noble sentiment of love and honor expressed toward his mother, 
which glowed in every lineament of his face, and he felt impressed 
to procure—if possible—one more trial for the outcast husband 
and father from him and the rest of the family. 

“You are trying to be a Christian!” Walter said to Willis; 
“you have found a peace and strength you never felt until of 
late by which to resist temptation. You also feel a generous 
impulse—a spirit of benevolence, you never felt until now.” 

The young man admitted that all his young pastor had said 
was true in his case. 

“I presume,” added Walter, “you as a family will not object 
to my accompanying you home and becoming your guest for 
the night.” 

“Most certainly not!” he and his mother both replied, “we 
will be pleased to have you come with us if you w T ill accept 
our plain hospitality.” 

“But I have a friend here tonight,” said Walter slowly, 
“whom I wish to accompany me. We can—with your permis¬ 
sion—occupy the same bed, Mrs. Skains; and I fully believe you 
will be so pleased with my friend after this night you will want 
him to remain, even more than you will me.” 

The family was greatly puzzled as to whom Walter meant. 
All had left the church except the little family group who were 
the objects of his planning. Having lain in a barn all that cold 
day, in a drunken state, the man came into the church—having 
had no supper nor dinner—that he might become warm. How 
dreadful to go out now into the frosty night—no suitable place 
to sleep. The thought of this, to Walter, was unbearable; 
pointing toward him, as he sat by the stove—with his head 


[ 202 ] 


A Brand Plucked From The Burning 

bowed down, the picture of sin, despair and want—he said, 
with his eyes swimming in tears: “Willis, there is my poor 
friend—your father! Will you not honor him once more as 
you honor me? Let me bring him to your house with me?” 

Willis’s mother—her eyes filled with tears also, her old sym¬ 
pathy for her husband returning—said, however: “Mr. Seely, 
we have no bed for him; you certainly would not be willing to 
allow him to occupy a bed with you in the condition he is?” 

“I am willing, a thousand times more than willing, rather than 
have him sleep in jail or lie out on a cold pavement this bleak 
night! Can he come?” 

“Mr. Seely, if you feel that way, he can come,” said Willis, 
and the family turned and left the church. 

Hastily putting on his coat and gloves, Walter aroused the 
man from the half drunken stupor into which he had fallen, 
and said: “Come, Mr. Skains, I am going to stay with your 
wife and children tonight, and you are to go with me.” 

“What, me?” he asked, in a bewildered manner. “I stay 
with my wife and children tonight? Oh, I am not fit; it cannot 
be! I am too bad, too bad! They will not receive me.” 
Sitting down again, he began to sob. 

“Come, now, no more of this,” said Walter, speaking with 
firmness, as he grasped his arm. 

“Brace up, be a man, and God and man will help you;” so 
saying, he took his arm and together they followed the family 
home. 

Walter drew from him his life story—in broken sentences at 
first, until the cool, clear air revived him, as they walked 
together. 

A history was his, full of sin and sorrow. Self-sufficient at 
first, he boasted that he “could drink or let it alone,” as he 
chose; but he chose to drink; soon he had no power of choice, 
but felt compelled by appetite to indulge more and more, until 
the one, all absorbing cry of his flesh was for drink—drink, 
more and stronger drink. His every waking thought was, how 
he could obtain it. Earnings, home, everything had gone to 
secure it. Nearly all his wife and children had earned or 


[ 203 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


friends had bestowed, had been filched away from them to satiate 
his undying thirst, until his oldest son, on approaching man¬ 
hood, had rebelled against such extortion and driven him from 
home. 

“It is just,” he said. “I do not blame my wife and children. 
They are better off when I am away. I am not worthy to enter 
their home; for it is theirs and not mine; they have made it. I 
am not worthy to live; I am not fit to die; I have forfeited 
heaven; and oh, sir, I dread the doom I know awaits the 
drunkard.” 

“There is only one hope for you, Mr. Skains—and there is one 
hope; you must confess your guilt and weakness to God. By 
drinking —even hut moderately —you have sinned against Him; 
you must ask for pardon. You have weakened your every 
power and faculty. God only can give you strength. Do 
you believe it?” Walter asked, encouragingly. 

“I do, Mr. Seely,” he replied, just as they reached the gate. 
The family was already there and had lighted the lamps and 
kindled the fire. The scene beheld through the window melted 
the heart of Mr. Skains anew. The curtain had been left up 
and the lamp shed its light upon the path leading from the gate. 

“I am not worthy to enter there,” he cried, with choking 
voice, as he halted near the steps. 

“You must go in, Mr. Skains,” said Walter, urging him for¬ 
ward. “Improve the present; make a right use of the future 
and the past will be forgiven.” 

His little daughter opened the door as she heard their foot¬ 
steps on the porch. 

What a scene greeted their eyes as they entered the cozy room, 
with its carpeted floor and plain, strong furniture. Beautiful 
pictures hung on the neatly papered walls. The soft light and 
warmth soon soothed Mr. Skains’ agitated, trembling nerves, 
weakened by exposure and hunger. He sat in an easy chair 
his son had drawn near the fire for him. The tears rolled 
silently down his haggard, unshaved face, as he sat gazing into 
the blazing fire. 

“I will get you some supper, John!” Mrs, Skains said, ten- 


[ 204 ] 


A Brand Plucked From The Burning 

derly, after she had taken Walter’s overcoat—an article her 
husband did not possess. His hungry look followed her as she 
left the room. When the fragrant odors of food and steaming 
coffee came through the open kitchen door, he turned to his 
daughter and said: 

“Minnie, will you show me where I can wash my hands and 
face? I have been a stranger so long I do not know where to 
go; my hands are too unsteady to shave myself tonight,” he 
added—drawing his hand over his bristly face. 

In a few minutes he was shown into a tidy bedroom. When 
he had bathed, and put on clean wearing apparel, which his 
son—now his equal in size—had kindly furnished him, he sat 
down at the table to partake of the much needed refreshments 
his wife had prepared for them all. Many months had passed 
since he received such attention or shared such kindness. 

Dashing his hands across his eyes to brush away the tears, he 
looked at the little group who had accompanied him to the 
dining room, that they might visit and partake together, while 
he ate his supper, dinner and breakfast all at once. 

“I am thankful to you, Mr. Seely, for what you have told 
me,” he said; “no one has ever shown me before how I could 
overcome my sinful weakness. I have resolved hundreds of 
times to drink no more. I have signed pledges, taken oaths, 
been imprisoned and fined; my wife and children have plead 
and borne with me; they have deprived themselves of food and 
clothing to pay my fines and get me released from jail. After 
each and all attempts to keep me back I would feel myself 
drawn with a power I could not resist; into the saloon I would 
go; then days and weeks of debauchery would follow. It is 
horrible to me as I recall it—loathesome to you as I relate it. 
I was in despair! Tonight, however, you have given me new 
light and hope. If God will save me, I will serve Him! For 
the wrongs I have done my family I will spend the rest of my 
days in toil and care for them.” 

It was past the midnight hour when they arose from the 
table and all knelt together; each of the family offered a brief, 
earnest prayer for the husband and father, to which Walter 


[ 205 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


added a petition to which Mr. Skains added, in tearful suppli¬ 
cation, “God be merciful to me, a sinner!” 

Angels in heaven must have rejoiced that night, as did that 
little company around the poor penitent, as they heard his sim¬ 
ple prayer offered in an agony of earnestness. 

Side by side he and Walter slept in the same bed, in the little 
bedroom, between snow white sheets on a bed as soft as down— 
heirloom to Mrs. Skains from her mother, which had often 
been pawned by her husband for drink, unknown to her, 
until its absence was discovered, only to be redeemed by the 
hard earnings of herself and her children. 

Walter slipped his hand under Mr. Skain’s arm, fearing his 
demon appetite might arise and drag him away before morning. 

On first awaking at early dawn, Mr. Skains seemed dazed, as 
he cast his eyes about the room. No barred doors nor win¬ 
dows! No sheriff nor policeman near! His form did not ache 
as he had so often experienced when awaking on the pavement 
or cold, damp ground. 

“Where am I?” he exclaimed, hah audibly. Then recalling 
the events of the previous evening and seeing the young minis¬ 
ter by his side, his pent up feelings of gratitude found expression 
in copious tears and words of thankfulness and joy. After his 
emotions had subsided he and Walter arose, and, after com¬ 
pleting their toilets, joined the family in their cozy parlor, then 
all passed out to the dining room. 

After breakfast and devotions, Mr. Skains said to his son, 
Willis: “My son, I will not remain and be a burden and expense 
to you. I will go at once and seek work. Can you suggest 
some place I would be likely to obtain it?” 

Knowing his father’s reputation in that part of the city, he 
said: “I do not know where you could obtain employment 
unless it be in the lumber yard!” 

“Well, then, I will go there and inquire!” said his father. 

“I will go with you, Mr. Skains,” said Walter, partly to in¬ 
tercede for him with the lumber dealer, whom he knew—he and 
the church officers having purchased lumber of him for the new 
church begun under Walter’s direction—but chiefly because he 


[ 206 ] 


A Brand Plucked From The Burning 

feared to let him go alone past the dozen or more saloons he 
would have to pass in going to the lumber yard. 

It was well he went with him, for as they passed one and an¬ 
other of them the sounds and odors that came out—even at 
that early hour—caused Mr. Skains a convulsive shudder, as if 
struggling against a powerful inclination to go in. 

“Oh, Mr. Seely!” he excalimed, “how can a man reform 
when these places are open night and day to tempt him to fall 
again?” 

“With man it is impossible, but with God all things are pos¬ 
sible,” Walter replied, and added: “But for His grace and help 
I might also be such as you have been. Now I loathe and dread 
those places as a I do a den of thieves or a nest of rattlesnakes; 
the beverages poured out in these saloons I fear as I would 
poison.” 

“Do you suppose I can ever feel that way?” said Mr. Skains, 
“or must I still feel this consuming thirst and depend on God 
to keep me from yielding to it?” 

“You have only to surrender yourself—soul and body—to 
Him and wait the results,” was the reply. 

Having carried his dinner with him—which his wife had 
carefully prepared, Mr. Skains—who obtained the employment 
desired—did not return home until evening. To escape the 
saloons and his old associates he went some miles through the 
outskirts of the place to reach home in safety. 

That night he appeared at church wdth his family, just as 
Walter began the services. People wondered as they saw his 
changed appearance—reclad, smoothly shaved, hair combed 
back from his high, broad forehead, on which rested, however, a 
shadow of remorse and fear. 

Walter did not see him again to converse with him until the 
next evening. 

How changed his appearance and expression of countenance 
as he entered the church with his family! The shadow had 
gone from his brow; his eyes—no longer dull and listless—were 
beaming with joy and happiness. During the singing he en¬ 
gaged heartily, although his voice was trembling and broken. 


[ 207 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


He listened attentively to the sermon, while beside him sat his 
wife, calm and happy; his sons and daughter frequently glanced 
toward him, with proud confidence and hope—glad to have a 
true father at last whom they could respect and trust. 

When the sermon was ended and different persons had offered 
prayer, he arose and asked the privilege of relating his remark¬ 
able experience. 

“Many of you,” he said, “have known me perhaps in the 
years that are gone. What you have known was no credit to 
me. My family have known me, only to their sorrow. God 
has known me, however, better than all others. While He has 
justly condemned me, He has pitied and saved me. Not 
knowing where I was going I entered this room a few nights ago 
to warm my benumbed body after a day of drunken sleep in a 
cold barn. 

“For thirty years I have been a slave to drink. I had given 
up in despair, to die a drunkard. Here I heard words that 
gave me one faint, new hope. I have experienced their truth 
and effects in the forgiveness of God and the renewed kindness 
of my wife and children. I felt the power of the Spirit of God 
enter me today. I felt I would rather die than go back to drink 
again. When the day’s labor was over I knelt down to pray— 
shut away among the lumber piles from everybody—resolved 
never to rise unless delivered from my appetite. 

“I prayed for mercy and mercy was shown me. I asked for a 
new life and it came—a thrill of joy went through my being. 
I was as one ‘raised from the dead.’ I loathed my former self 
as though it had been a putrid corpse. Rising to my feet, I 
hastened home to tell my family—I came not around the out¬ 
skirts of the town and through the fields as yesterday and the 
day before, to escape the saloons and their temptations, but 
passed them all. I had no more desire to enter one than I would 
a cesspool to drink or bathe. My appetite for strong drink was 
gone. Had the contents of every cask and barrel and bottle 
been poured out before me, I felt I could have waded through 
it all and not touch my tongue to it. I feel safe and my home 
is happy.” 


[ 208 ] 


A Brand Plucked From The Burning 

Many eyes were dimmed with tears of joy; many hearts were 
raised in praise and prayerful invocation in his behalf. 

“Beloved, what hath God wrought?” said Walter, after 
which the meeting was dismissed. 

“It must seem like a new life and a new love to you,” Walter 
said to Mrs. Skains some months afterward when he was re¬ 
turning from church and Sunday school with her and her hus¬ 
band. “I trust it will not make your husband vain if I tell him 
he appears to be growing young and handsome.” 

“I cannot speak for my outward appearance, Mr. Seely,” 
said Mr. Skains, interrupting his wife’s joyful expression of 
gratitude; “but I know I am renewed within; God bless you 
for telling me how it could be done,” he added, as he grasped 
Walter warmly by the hand. 


[ 209 ] 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


Hope Deferred. 

Walter Seely’s excessive labors imposed upon him the need 
of rest; this he sought in a visit to the homes of Rosamond and 
his father. 

It seemed like former days indeed, to sit with the two families 
again united for an evening under the parental roof. 

Age was streaking his father’s hair and beard with gray. 
Martin w T as grown to be a strong and industrious youth. 

Other persons and things showed but little appearance of 
change, save that Clarence Farnsworth wore an expression of 
weariness as from toil too excessive for his constitution; there 
was also somewhat that look one feels when sensing a loss of 
manliness in spirit and conduct. When at Rosamond’s house 
Walter observed that she often sighed and placed her hand 
upon her heart. 

Knowing the furrows upon her brow and cheeks were not 
made there by the plowshare of time, he took occasion—when 
they were alone—to inquire as to the real extent of her trouble. 
His gravest fears were more than confirmed; his recent experi¬ 
ence with John Skains, how T ever—in his conversion and reforma¬ 
tion—had given him strong encouragement to hope a similar 
change w r ould come to Clarence, and a happiness like that of 
Mrs. Skains would come to Rosamond. 

“Clarence does not drink himself into a drunken stupor, nor 
does he abuse me or the children by personal violence,” she said 
to Walter, “but his coldness and neglect toward me and the 
children are grieving me to death. If I or any of my friends 
counsel or censure him about his habits he becomes morose and 
resentful; if we remain silent he thinks we feel a dislike or con¬ 
tempt for him. I fear he has not long to live; I cannot think 
of his going aw T ay from me or dying in disgrace. 


[ 210 ] 



Hope Deferred 


“I thought when I plead for father’s consent to marry him, 
my influence would save him and I could help him fulfill the 
promise he made to abstain from drinking intoxicants. I do 
not love him less than I did then, but the hope I then enjoyed 
has almost given way to despair, because he despairs of himself 
and will make no more promises; he says he cannot keep them. 
I know not what to do”—interrupted just then by the cry of 
her infant—only a few weeks old—she arose and went to the 
bedroom, returning in a few minutes bringing the babe with her. 

“I have long felt a deep solicitude for you, Rosamond,” said 
her brother. “I have at times felt indignant toward Clarence 
when I surmised he was the cause of your care worn expression 
and loss of happiness; but I entertain no such feelings now. I 
am pleased to know you are disposed to befriend him to the end; 
it may be we can save him, if only at the last, and he may yet 
reform and lead years of sober, upright life.” 

Walter then told her of Mr. Skains and the blessed change 
that came to him and his family. 

“Are vou ever in want of the necessaries of life for vourself 
and children?” he inquired of her. 

“No,” she replied, “for father and Edward are very kind to 
us. The farm and garden ought to furnish us a good living— 
with the milk and poultry we have—but we are in debt at the 
different stores which greatly worries me. However, it is 
not want that I fear, nor poverty I dread, but the disgrace 
that will rest on my children and the tendency to inherit appe¬ 
tite; then to be forsaken or treated coldly by my friends— 
because I and my children have an intemperate husband and 
father—is very painful to me.” 

Unable to control her feelings, as she contemplated the sad 
picture of her present life and probable future, she wept, until 
her tears fell upon the face of her sleeping babe on her arms. 

“Could Clarence be persuaded to sign the pledge—though I 
have not the confidence in that means of reforming drinking 
men I once had—or could he be persuaded to attend church and 
become a Christian, I should then have hopes for him,” said 
Walter, after having witnessed, in silence for a few moments, 


[ 211 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


his sister’s weeping. “Clarence is not so far gone, Rosamond, as 
some whom I have seen,” he added. “One sad feature in his 
case, and quite discouraging, is his lack of love for his family; 
that being no fault of yours shows a selfish spirit and lack of 
principle in him; a man should feel his duty to his family one 
of his greatest obligations, and love and look to them as his best 
defenders, and his home as his safest retreat. His losing con¬ 
fidence in himself is sheer weakness and lack of decision; but he 
has considerable pride left—or fear—and tries to cover up his 
doings. He seems to have sufficient physical strength to pre¬ 
vent his being toppled over into the ditch every time he indulges 
his appetite. What he needs is more moral principle and 
strength of will.” 

“But how can he obtain them, Walter?” asked Rosamond, 
grasping, like a drowning person, at anything that would buoy 
up her sinking hopes. 

“Just as Mr. Skains and many others have, my dear sister! 

“By repentance toward God and faith in Jesus,” Walter 
answered, and added: “Intemperance is a sin , long before it 
becomes a disease; the sin must be repented of before it can be 
forgiven and the disease cured. Clarence and thousands of 
others are today bewailing their unfortunate condition , who do 
not repent of their wickedness in drinking—asking God to pardon 
their sin in that respect.” 

“I wish I had more faith myself,” said Rosamond; “I hardly 
dare call myself a Christian, although I do pray every day; I 
read and firmly believe the Bible.” 

“If anyone needs the help and consolations of religion, Rosa¬ 
mond, it is you and women who are situated as you are,” 
Walter said to her. “I trust you may believe all God’s precious 
promises; trust in His forgiveness and guiding care. Think of 
Aunt Carrie! How much she suffered, and yet, how serene and 
cheerful she is! She is truly a devoted Christian or she never 
could have endured her trials and been happy. I greatly miss 
the privilege of seeing her at this time. Won’t you please tell 
me about her and the girls?” 

“We wrote you about Uncle Joel’s return from California, 


[ 212 ] 


Hope Deferred 


didn’t we?” asked Rosamond, wiping the tears from her eyes, 
as Walter’s request turned her thoughts into a new channel. 

“I believe someone, writing from home, did mention the fact, 
but not the particulars,” Walter replied. 

“After being away twenty-seven years,” said Rosamond, 
“he returned, an old, gray-haired man. He seemed to be tem¬ 
perate, but his wild western life had not refined his manners 
very much. He had plenty of money, he said, to take care of 
Aunt Carrie and the girls, and he insisted on their returning 
with him to California. He said he would not live here among 
his wife’s rich relatives, from which we inferred he was not 
possessed of as much wealth as he pretended. 

“We all regretted Aunt Carrie’s going, she and the girls had 
become so much a part of our families.” 

“I hope they will enjoy their new home and Aunt Carrie’s 
labors and trials be lighter,” Walter remarked. 

Looking at his watch, he added, “as I wish to preach in my 
church next Sunday I must leave you now, Rosamond, for I 
wish to remain at father’s tonight, so he or one of the boys can 
take me to Lockwood in the morning in time for the early train; 
before I go shall I pray with you once more?” Suiting the 
action to the question, he knelt beside Rosamond’s chair, while 
she sat with her face pressed down upon the cheek of the babe 
in her arms. 

“Good bye, Rosamond,” he said, when he arose to leave, and 
she turned her tear-stained face to receive his parting kiss. 

“I am so glad you came, Walter,” she said, calming herself. 
“Your words and your prayer have done me good; but oh, 
Walter,” she exclaimed, after a moment’s pause, during which 
tears again welled up in her eyes and rolled upon her cheeks, 
“I am sorry to have you go away; you only seem to understand 
my heart, or have any sympathy or hope for Clarence.” 

“But I shall come again, I trust,” he said. “A brighter day 
may yet dawn for you and yours; remember always, Rosa¬ 
mond, in the darkest hour that is just before the dawn, there is 
a Friend who is ever near, ‘Who sticketh closer than a brother.’ ” 

Kissing her and her babe again, he hastened away. 


[ 213 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


While passing down the street of Lockwood the next morning 
with his father, Walter observed the number of saloons that 
were open—some new ones having been added since he left 
home. Their inside operations were hidden from the passing 
public by screens and shaded glass. He wondered that public 
sentiment would allow them to increase or even exist. He 
resolved to return to his church and people and arouse them to 
protest against the wrongs the saloons were doing and demand 
that they be closed and the selling of intoxicating beverages be 
stopped in his parish. The following Sunday after his return 
he announced that the subject of the prayer meeting of the week 
would be “Temperance and Reform.” 

When the evening came, he read numerous Scripture passages 
bearing upon the subject. The young people sang temperance 
hymns with zealous enthusiasm. The older men prayed long 
prayers for the removal of the curse of intemperance. The 
men who spoke expressed the “hope that law would be enforced 
and drunkards and law breakers be heavily fined.” 

In the Sunday school the following Sabbath Walter said, 
“all who are in favor of the saloon raise your hands.” No hands 
were raised. He then said, “all who wish there were no sa¬ 
loons, and, if you could vote, would vote against them and all 
candidates w T ho favor them, at the coming election for city 
officers, raise your hands.” 

All the female portion of the school and the small boys raised 
their hands, also most of the young men did likewise. Several 
men who were either officers or teachers or belonged to the 
Bible class did not vote either way. 

After the Sunday school was dismissed Walter overheard the 
superintendent saying, “I don't believe in his dragging politics 
into the Sunday school. What do these women and children 
know about such things?” 

In the evening Walter preached a sermon on “The Perils of 
the Times, and the Privileges and Duties of Christian Citizens.” 

“The tendency of multitudes of young men and boys,” he 
said, in the course of his sermon—for these were ever uppermost 
in his mind—“is toward the centers of dissipation and corrup- 


[ 214 ] 


Hope Deferred 


tion. Hardly a form of personal or organized iniquity exists 
in this country but what centers and revolves around the sa¬ 
loons, as satellites around their central sun. To them our youth 
flock like moths to the candle. 

“None approach them, however pure, but go away polluted. 
Once affected by their spell scarcely one can recover who con¬ 
tinues to visit them. They are almost everywhere—in our 
beautiful suburb and in yonder great city. More saloons than 
churches; more drunkards than Christians. They supply ten¬ 
ants for our jails and prisons; paupers for our public alms¬ 
houses and charitable institutions to care for. 

“Is there no remedy? Is there no ‘balm in Gilead?’ 

“Do I hear someone say, ‘Yes, in moderation in drinking?’ 
As well talk ‘moderation’ to the sweeping flames in a field of 
ripened wheat as to talk it to one whose whole being is one great 
Sahara of thirst for alcohol. Then, ‘moderation in making and 
selling,’ says another. As well talk ‘moderation’ to the tiger 
which has already the victim in his power and his fangs bathed 
in its blood, as to talk ‘moderation’ to those who make their 
gain by this awful traffic. 

“Do you say, ‘use moral suasion? Let mothers and wives 
and sisters and daughters plead with the erring!’ Have not 
they plead and in vain? Could all the tears intemperance has 
wrung from loving, doting eyes be gathered up and poured into 
the mighty river that flows past your city, it would overflow its 
banks. Of what avail their tears? Arguments are not needed 
to convince one of what is already known or admitted. Advice 
is useless to those physically incapable or unwilling to follow it. 
What is needed as a remedy for intemperance is the removal of 
the cause. 

“We have been trying to regulate the traffic in ardent spirits, 
but thus far ‘regulation’ has proved to be a protection—not 
of the weak slaves of appetite, but of the rich and strong, made 
so by the victims of their business. That which we seek to 
‘regulate ’ has become dictator, dictating to or defying those who 
seek to regulate it. 

“This monster is hydra-headed and Argus-eyes; never found 


[ 215 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


sleeping and not to be easily overcome or destroyed. But de¬ 
stroyed it must be. Regulate it we cannot. For its destruction 
then let women plead and children lisp their prayers. Let the 
law follow where the gospel has so long plead to unfeeling 
deafness. 

“Let the Christian citizen—be he merchant or mechanic, 
legal advisor or practicing physician; be he rich or poor, exer¬ 
cise his privilege, doing his duty, by casting his ballot for men 
and measures whose sway shall be for the people’s good and 
not the people’s woe.” 

Walter was quite astonished, as he descended from the pul¬ 
pit, to be told by one of the church officers—a wealthy man— 
if he “persisted in preaching politics the congregation would 
decrease in numbers and his salary would fall short.” 

He was greatly surprised at this suggestive warning, which, 
however, did not disturb him, but led him then and there to re¬ 
solve to adopt the Scriptural, unsalaried plan of support, and 
look to God alone to provide, in His own way, the means to main¬ 
tain him and his and the w T ork given him to do. 

He was amused to read in the Monday’s daily that “the un¬ 
fledged pastor of one of our suburban churches so far forgot his 
place and his youth last evening, as to attempt to instruct his 
hearers in political economy and dictate to them their duty at 
the polls in the coming election. We were grieved to see the 
pulpit brought down to the level of the rostrum of the political 
stump speaker. While we admired his sincerity and zeal, we 
deplored his lack of discretion. His elocution was faultless— 
his metaphors original and forceful; still, we would advise him 
to ‘take some of the feathers from the wings of his imagination 
and place them in the tail of his judgment,’ that hereafter he may 
steer clear of attempting to use his pulpit in which to play the 
partisan role.” 

Conversing with some of the most zealous workers in the 
church Walter was surprised when they expressed themselves as 
favoring the law that licensed men to make or sell intoxicating 
drink. He knew that many of them had sons who were be¬ 
coming intemperate; some of them were in Fagan’s place the 


[ 216 ] 


Hope Deferred 

night he went, expecting to and did find several of the young 
men there. 

“The revenue from license fees reduces our taxes,” was the 
main reason given for favoring the license system. Walter knew 
that some of the men who had acted on that theory had paid 
more to keep their sons from jail after becoming intoxicated at 
the saloons than all their taxes amounted to. 

He visited the voting places to learn how city elections were 
conducted, although too young himself to vote. Again he was 
surprised to see many leading citizens—some church members 
and some pastors of churches—vote for intemperate men; they 
walked side by side—arm in arm in some cases—with saloon 
keepers to vote the same ticket in favor of the saloon. 

“Surely,” he said to himself, “if these men are right, I am 
w 7 rong and deserved the newspaper criticism, also the reproof of 
the church officer; but how can they do it consistently and pray 
for virtue and sobriety to prevail? How can God answ r er their 
prayers?” 

He was greatly disturbed by these reflections, almost ques¬ 
tioning, after all he saw and heard, whether ministers ought to 
mix up in politics or even vote if they could accomplish but little 
or nothing for the right. 

For the time being he almost decided that should be his 
course, and he would confine himself to preaching the plain, 
simple gospel and doing what good he could. Then he asked 
himself, “if ministers and churches should not oppose the sa¬ 
lon, why do not statesmen, politicians and business men do 
something to put a stop to this evil that is growing every day 
in extent and power?” 

Walter knew he did not hate the men wdio made or sold 
liquor, but their harmful business. 

With one of them he became well acquainted—whose beau¬ 
tiful wife and children attended his Sunday school. Being 
especially invited, during a period of revival services he closed 
his saloon evenings and attended. Meeting Walter on the 
street one day he greeted him cordially. His face wore a 
serious expression. 


[ 217 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“I want to see you alone, Mr. Seely,” he told him. Seated 
by themselves in a storeroom he said: 

“My wife and I have attended your church several times of 
late. She wants to become a Christian and is urging me to do 
so. You know my business. By it I dress her like a lady. She 
has a gold watch and chain and lots of jewelry. We have Brus¬ 
sels carpets and upholstered furniture equal to anyone in town. 
I have just bought my little girl a piano for which I paid six 
hundred dollars. You have seen me riding with my family; 
you know what a fine horse and carriage I have. Do you think 
I could be a Christian and continue my business? While your 
church members do not patronize my bar, with but few excep¬ 
tions they voted to grant me a license to sell liquor to other men. 
I can’t see why one thing is any worse than the other. I would 
like to be a church member for my wife’s sake. How can I 
consistently and follow my business, or how can I support my 
family, Mr. Seely, if I give it up?” 

“I am very glad, Mr. Rose,” said Walter, “that you and your 
wife are interested in religion. To be Christians w T e must love 
and obey God, and love and help our fellow men. If we love 
them, we will practice the ‘Golden Rule.’ Now, Mr. Rose, 
you have an elegantly furnished home, I know; but who are 
your customers and what is the condition of their homes? 
How do they dress and feed their families or furnish their 
houses?” 

“That is what troubles me,” Mr. Rose replied. “I tell some 
of them they should not spend their money for liquor and rob 
their families. They will have it though, and if I refuse to 
sell to them, they will go to Allen’s or Fagan’s or Schmidt’s; that 
you know, is not business, Mr. Seely! We must keep all we 
have and get all we can if we get on in this world,” he said, with 
a smile. 

“But what about the world to come?” asked Walter. ‘ “ What 
shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own 
soul?’ As to your business, the Bible says, ‘woe to him that 
putteth the bottle to his neighbor’s lips; that maketh him 
drunken also, that he may look upon his shame.’ Oh, Mr. 


[ 218 ] 


Hope Deferred 


Rose! I do want you to give up that business and become a 
good and happy Christian. God will bless and care for you and 
yours if you will serve Him; if not, I fear your business will 
prove a curse to you. Have you no trade?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “I am a first-class blacksmith, but I have 
lived an easy life so long I do not like to begin such hard work 
again; but I do feel I ought to change my way of living. I will 
think it over, Mr. Seely.” So saying they separated. The 
next w T eek he was induced to move to another city and opened a 
larger establishment. One of his children soon died. His 
partner won his wife’s affections from him and eloped with her; 
within a few months he died of excessive drinking. 

Another saloonkeeper and his wife attended Walter’s meet¬ 
ings. They had once been Christians and were reclaimed after 
which the man immediately destroyed what liquor he had on 
hand and moved with his family onto a farm, where they were 
soon enjoying peace and prosperity. 

As time passed, some things became more and more clear to 
Walter’s mind; one was that if a man has the right principle he 
will not engage or continue in the manufacture or sale of ardent 
spirits. How to control or prevent such as have not right moral 
ideas or are untrue to what they do know, was to him, as it has 
been to many an older man, an unsolved problem. 

Walter had also become satisfied that if a drunkard becomes 
once truly converted to God, as John Skains had been, he could 
and would abstain from drinking; the saloons would have no 
attractions for him. How to keep men from frequenting sa¬ 
loons and forming the habit of drinking; how to save those 
drunkards who would not become Christians greatly troubled 
him; he saw no salvation or hope for most of them, as long as the 
saloons were permitted to thrive. 


[219] 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


The Darkest Hour. 

Walter received a letter from Martin, his youngest brother, 
stating he would visit him before returning to school to prepare 
for teaching. 

The night after his arrival the brothers went into the city to 
hear a celebrated lecturer. They went to a hotel to lodge. 
Arriving at their room, Walter made many inquiries about 
those at home—more especially about Rosamond and Clar¬ 
ence. A year had passed since he had seen them and had the 
last conversation with his sister. 

“We had excellent crops and good weather to harvest them. 
I worked for Clarence most of the summer,” Martin remarked, 
and added: 

“Clarence has sustained several misfortunes of late. Before 
I began working for him the weeds got the start of him and the 
corn will suffer on account of it, as the haying and harvesting 
came on before the corn was ready to ‘ turn over. ’ The wheat 
became too ripe and much was lost in cutting and stacking. 
Clarence hired a young boy also; while riding his best horse 
after the cows, which were over by the white school house, 
she stumbled and fell, breaking her neck; she died on the 
spot. During the dry weather water became very scarce; 
while Clarence was turning the windlass to let the big earth 
bucket down to the man who was digging the well deeper, the 
handle slipped from his hands; before he could dodge away it 
came around, striking him in the face, cutting and bruising him 
so badly that he was laid up for ten days.” 

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Walter; “did ever a man have such 
misfortunes?” 

“That was not all,” said Martin. “Some weeks after he re¬ 
covered from his injury John Giddings came there, half intoxi¬ 
cated; he began abusing you.” 


[ 220 ] 



The Darkest Hour 


“Abusing me!” said Walter, in surprise. “What have I 
done to him?” 

“He accused you of stealing a bridle from him. Clarence 
denied your doing such a thing, whereupon John picked up a 
neck yoke lying by the wagon and struck him on the arm, also 
cutting his face so badly he was ‘laid up’ for several days. 
John Magorry had just come over from father’s on an errand; 
he rushed up to John Giddings. 

‘Yees a dhirty spalpeen, yees are,’ he said to him; ‘w’ud 
yees be knockin’ the brains out o’ him, roight ferninst me oyes, 
and Rosamond an’ the childers alookin’ an’ a cryin’? May the 
saints presairve us! By me sowl, oi’ll”—crossing himself with 
one hand he grabbed the neck yoke away from John Giddings 
with the other; he was about to strike him with it when Clarence 
caught his hand, telling him not to hurt him. ‘Thin oi’ll haive 
him over the fince, Mishter Fairnswort,’ said John. Turning 
to John Giddings he said, ‘away wid yees, ye murtherin’ spal¬ 
peen!’ Seizing him by the collar he pushed and pulled him 
through the gate; he helped him rather roughly into his buggy, 
unhitched his horse and started him home, cursing and 
swearing.” 

“What did John Giddings mean by accusing me of stealing 
his bridle?” asked Walter. 

“Do you remember,” asked Martin, “that you borrowed a 
bridle of him when you and Carrol Frisbie rode to Plainwell on 
horseback to procure a boarding place, when you and he were 
arranging to attend college?” 

“Yes, I do recall the incident, but that was most four years 
ago,” answered Walter; “I supposed he got his bridle. Was it 
not taken home? You promised to return it for me.” 

“Well, yes and no,” Martin replied, slightly embarrassed. 
“You left it at father’s, as you had not time to return it after 
you came back from Plainwell before you went away again. I 
did not have an opportunity to carry it back to him until he 
came after it.” 

“Yes, yes; I understand,” said Walter; “so he has been harp¬ 
ing against me ever since and Clarence has had to suffer on 


[ 221 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


account of it. That was too bad. It goes to prove also—in 
John Gidding’s case—as with everyone else—that Christians— 
ministers in particular—should be very careful and punctual in 
fulfilling their promises, especially to irreligious people. But 
how did all of Clarence’s misfortune affect him?” 

“He became very much discouraged and spent more time 
than ever in Lockwood,” Martin answered. “He would come 
home very late at night; the next day he and the team would 
hardly be fit to work. He is very heavily in debt; I understand 
Rosamond has put a mortgage on the farm father gave her to 
raise money to pay part of his debts. No doubt thinking he could 
make some money to pay the balance Clarence played cards 
and gambled in other ways in Lockwood. The ‘sharpers’ let 
him win a few times. To get money to gamble with he drew 
away load after load of grain and sold it, then went to the sa¬ 
loons with the proceeds of the sales and lost all, and what he 
had won before as well. He had not much else to sell to buy 
clothing and provisions this winter for the comfort of Rosamond 
and the children.” 

“Poor Rosamond!” said Walter, as the tears filled his eyes. 
“But,” he added, “I know father and Edward will not permit 
her and the children to suffer. Could none of you prevent 
Clarence doing as he did, Martin?” 

“No, Walter, we could not,” he answered. “Rosamond 
would not leave him, nor would he leave her, although he often 
threatened to do so. Edward and I did sometimes go with him 
to town; he would slip away from us and we would find him in 
some saloon drinking and treating every one present. Clarence 
is very generous towards his false friends, but is very sparing 
toward his true ones.” 

“How deluding is strong drink!” said Walter, reflectively. 
“How it transforms a man into a beast and destroys all natural 
affections! Would he leave the saloon when you asked him 
to?” he inquired. 

“Yes, generally,” was the reply. “Once, however, when 
Edward went after him he refused to leave; as he was under 
the influence of liquor he abused Edward before all who were 


[ 222 ] 


The Darkest Hour 


in the room; leaving him there Edward drove the team home, 
but Clarence did not return until the next day. Shortly after 
that occurrence I went over from father’s to see how they were 
doing. Clarence had gone to Lockwood with a load of corn. 

I remained until after supper. He did not come home. Rosa¬ 
mond was feeling so sad, I decided to spend the evening with 
her and remain all night if he did not come before time to re¬ 
tire. We waited for him until after ten o’clock. As the chil¬ 
dren were all in bed fast asleep we decided to sit up no longer. 

“Several times during the evening Rosamond went out upon 
the porch to listen for his coming—while looking toward Lock- 
wood, where, through the darkness and cold, drizzling rain, 
she could see the faint glimmer of the lights in stores and houses. 

“She appeared more and more troubled each time she came 
in; the tears were coursing down her cheeks faster than she 
could wipe them away. I felt deeply moved, but not knowing 
what to do I went to my room.” 

Martin remained silent for a short time, with a blended 
look of pity and indignation upon his face. 

While Walter had been listening to the words of his brother 
the appearance of Rosamond, as Martin had pictured her, 
rose before his mind in contrast to her appearance years before, 
when she—a beautiful, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, light-hearted 
girl of sixteen—he, a little boy, heard her say to Aunt Carrie: 

“If I ever get married and my husband goes to saloons and 
gets hurt, I won’t go near him.” 

“What did she finally do, Martin?” Walter asked, filled with 
anxious interest to know what became of Clarence at that 
time. 

“I was awakened,” he replied, “by a rap on my bedroom 
door. Rosamond asked if I would remain with the children 
while she went to Lockwood to find Clarence. It was two 
o’clock; I dressed and went down stairs. I noticed as I passed 
her bedroom door that Rosamond had been lying down, but 
the bed had not been opened. She had doubtless remained 
dressed to assist Clarence if he came. Seeing how anxious she 
felt, I went and harnessed and hitched a horse to the buggy. 


[ 223 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


I told her I would go to Lockwood and find Clarence; if he would 
not come with me I would bring the team with me. Fearing I 
could not persuade him to come, she insisted on going; but I 
would not consent to her going alone at that hour, on such a 
night. Had Clarence driven his horses off a bridge, or from 
the road, or fallen from his wagon, she would be of small assist¬ 
ance. Just then her babe awoke and I thought she surely 
would give up the idea of going; but she soothed it to sleep 
again; having fixed the fire and extinguished the lamp light, she 
closed the bedroom door and actually risked leaving her three 
little ones alone and went with me to Lockwood in search of her 
husband. We scanned the roadsides and bridges by the light of 
our lantern to see if he had started home and stopped on the way 
or met with an accident. We reached Lockwood without dis¬ 
covering him or his horses. We drove to the livery barns to 
find the team and get trace of him if possible, but he had not 
been at either place. We then drove down the street, stopping 
before each of the saloons; a light could be seen in some of them, 
but all were quiet. Just as we were beginning to despair of 
finding him or the team, we passed a dark alley; a horse neighed 
long and loud; our horse answered it. Handing the reins to 
Rosamond as I stopped the horse I took the lantern and went 
down the narrow alley. There stood Clarence’s best team and 
wagon, fastened to the corner of an old shed, the water drip¬ 
ping on the horses from the eaves of the main building. The 
lines were under the horses’ feet. The posts and boards were 
gnawed and splintered as far as they could reach them with 
their teeth. They had evidently been there since noon; the 
ground where they stood was stamped into a thin mud several 
inches deep. A narrow stairway led from the -shed up to a 
dark entry. Holding the lantern above my head I found the 
door. Walking softly, I approached it and listened. I heard 
voices and soon detected that of Clarence. 

“Going back quietly the way I came I was about to unfasten 
the horses and drive them to a better place, when it occurred to 
me that the rattle of the wagon would attract the attention of the 
men upstairs; then Clarence would either come out and blame 


[ 224 ] 





“ROSAMOND” 

“Four Score and Five Years” 

(See Page 272) 








The Darkest Hour 


me, or suspecting someone had come after him, he would hide 
away. I knew how bitterly disappointed Rosamond would be 
not to find him. I therefore went directly to her and hitched the 
horse. She paid little attention to the team as she passed it. 
Following me up the stairs, into the entry, I knocked gently on 
the door, lest a louder rap would be taken for a policeman’s 
knock; then the lights would be put out—the men scattering 
and getting out some other way. 

“The key turned in the lock; the door was opened a few 
inches; I thrust my foot in, just in time to prevent the man 
shutting it, which he tried to do, when he saw Rosamond and 
me, instead of some of his customers, or some of the frequenters 
of the brothel attached to his saloon, as he supposed us to be at 
first. He asked me what I wanted. I told him—loud enough 
for those inside to hear: 

“My sister, who is with me, wants her husband.” 

“Who is her husband?” he asked. 

“When I said, “he is Clarence Farnsworth,’ someone inside 
said, ‘Now, Farnsworth, you’ll get a tongue lashing; you’d bet¬ 
ter skip.’ 

“Hearing them shoving chairs about, I put my shoulder 
against the door—pushing both it and the man away from 
before me. I went in, with Rosamond just behind me. 

“Clarence was staggering to his feet, to go out of another 
door; I stepped before him. 

“ ‘ Clarence,’ said Rosamond—taking him by the arm, hardly 
able to keep from crying—‘come, the children are at home 
alone; Martin will drive the team and you can ride with me in 
the buggy.’ 

“ ‘She’s got you, Farnsworth,’ said one of the men, as he 
gathered up the cards from the table and rolled up several bills 
which he took from a drawer; putting them in his pocket, he 
said, ‘I would like to see a woman lead me out that way, 
though! I’d horsewhip her when I got her home for coming in 
and spoiling a game.’ ” 

Martin paused, then added, “I intended to bring the buggy 
whip with me when I went back after Rosamond, but I forgot 


[ 225 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


it; it was well I did probably, for I was so angry when he said 
that, I should have cut him across the mouth with it and there 
would have been trouble. I was about to tell him what I 
thought of him when Rosamond looked me in the face and said, 
‘never mind, Martin, let us hurry home.’ 

“I followed her and Clarence out of the room; just before the 
door closed the same fellow, who took the cards and money from 
the table said, ‘Well, she spoiled the game, and saved him his 
last five dollars; but I made a pretty good haul out of him; 
seventy-five dollars isn’t bad pay for one night.’ 

“I heard another man say, ‘she was very mild with him; my 
wife would make things hot if she found me here.’ 

“Clarence insisted on driving his own team; but, after consid¬ 
erable persuasion, we induced him to ride with Rosamond in 
the buggy. 

“He did not go to Lockwood again for a week or more; but, 
Walter! there seems to be nothing to stop him if such a wife as 
Rosamond cannot keep him from it.’’ 

“Yes, Martin!” said Walter, with deep emotion, “there is 
One stronger than she or all of us together. He alone can pre¬ 
vent it and save him. Although Clarence is hundreds of miles 
away let us commit him to God in prayer.” 

Together the brothers knelt side by side. Walter prayed as 
he had never prayed for Clarence before; prayed God to show 
him his sin and wickedness; lead him to repentance and give 
him a new heart. An agony of desire made his body almost 
rigid while he prayed. His words were few, his voice low, but he 
prayed with his whole heart; the Divine Spirit helped him so 
that he offered an acceptable prayer. Suddenly the assurance 
that he was heard in heaven flooded his soul; the agony of desire 
passed instantly away; he was filled with peace; quickly rising 
to his feet, looking into his brother’s astonished eyes, he said, 
“Clarence will be saved, Martin!” 

“I hope he will be, for the sake of Rosamond and the chil¬ 
dren, as well as for his own,” Martin remarked, not fully com¬ 
prehending the grounds on which his brother’s confidence 
rested. He returned to his home again, a few days later, and 


[ 226 ] 


The Darkest Hour 


Walter resumed his pastoral duties. Whenever he thought of 
Rosamond, however, it was not with the troubled solicitude he 
had felt previous to the recent divine illumination he had ex¬ 
perienced while praying for Clarence’s conversion and refor¬ 
mation. 


[ 227 ] 


CHAPTER XXX. 


The Dawn of Day. 

An additional pleasure came to Walter in a visit from Claude 
Sharon a few weeks after that of Martin. After struggling long 
against poverty, Claude had, by earnest application, worked 
his way up until he was placed in his business life above or in 
charge of those who had enjoyed better advantages, but lacked 
Claude’s perseverance and practical knowledge. This was bring¬ 
ing him what must have seemed a princely income compared 
with his earlier earnings, so that he might have lived in the 
lap of luxury had he chosen. 

Just before going to visit Walter he had called on Rosamond 
and Clarence to receive the messages and tokens of love they 
wished him to convey from them. 

“You will hardly believe it, Walter,” Claude said, “when I 
tell you of the change in the character, personal conduct and 
home life of Clarence. He is no longer the sort of man you have 
known him to be for many years. 

“About the time Martin visited you, Clarence was literally 
‘throwing himself away;’ he was daily breaking your sister’s 
heart. One night he came to church; a series of revival meet¬ 
ings were in progress. I was surprised, as were all who knew 
him. At first I thought he was in search of someone, or was 
there to see and hear, then would go to the saloon and ridicule 
what he had seen and heard, as almost everyone who frequents 
saloons and gambling places will do—make light of sacred 
things and religious people. During the sermon I saw him 
wiping his eyes, but I could hardly think he was weeping tears 
of repentance, although I thought he ought to shed a great many 
of them. But they were tears of remorse. When our present 
pastor, Mr. Par ton, closed his sermon he asked all who wished 
to reform and be Christians to indicate it. Clarence rose and 


[22S] 



The Dawn Of Day 


with trembling voice said, ‘I am on the road to ruin; the end is 
not far away unless I stop now and here; I am very wicked; I 
am sorry for it and want God to forgive me, if there is mercy 
for me; I am very weak; I wish all good people to pray for me 
and help me.’ 

“He came again the following evening; Rosamond was with 
him; they have attended regularly ever since. Rosamond was 
more happy when I was visiting them than I ever saw her 
before, all on account of the great change and blessing that has 
come to Clarence. He reads a chapter in the Bible, then sings 
and prays morning and evening with his wife and children, be¬ 
sides saying grace at the table. He is very earnest in temper¬ 
ance work, and is making friends rapidly.” 

Walter listened as to something not unexpected, for had he 
not received an evidence from a Supernatural source that it 
would be so? 

A letter from Rosamond confirmed all that Claude had said 
concerning the new life and joy that had come to her and her 
husband. Walter waited patiently until he could go to hear 
from their own lips the rehearsal of the experience. 

“Thank God for His goodness and mercy; a brighter day has 
come to Rosamond!” he said, walking back and forth across 
the room, after Claude finished telling him about Clarence. 

Turning to him again, he said: “Claude, what are your 
plans? We have counselled each other so long I feel quite free 
to inquire. How many heart to heart talks we had, how many 
pleasant hours we enjoyed when you used to visit me in the old 
farm house! I shall be glad to advise and help you further, if 
I can do so to your advantage.” 

“Walter!” Claud replied, “I have only one ambition in life, 
only one thing for which I desire to live; that is to enter the 
same field of usefulness in which you are engaged. I have 
reached a position which would supply all my earthly needs and 
make me wealthy, but I am not contented. When I was strug¬ 
gling against poverty I felt I whould be perfectly happy in such 
a position as I am in now,—assisting the surveyors in locating 
streets and lots for property owners whose buildings were swept 


[229] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


away in Chicago’s great fire. But I would rather be poor and 
preach the gospel than pile up wealth.” 

“Well,” said Walter, with a pleased expression on his counte¬ 
nance, “I am rejoiced to know you feel so inclined. Why not 
begin now T , Claude? Next Sunday evening is the time for the 
monthly service and sermon I devote to young people. Why 
not make an address to them?” 

“I am not prepared to do so,” answered Claude. “I have no 
notes nor anything with me which I could use to their profit.” 

“Yes, you have, I am quite sure,” said Walter; “you have 
time and the throne of grace; here is my Bible and book case. 
You can improve the time from now until then, using the means 
at hand; from these and your numerous prayer meeting talks 
and temperance addresses you can cull material which you can 
weave into a most instructive lesson, with a few touches of per¬ 
sonal experience. What say you now?” 

As he still hesitated, Walter said, laughingly, “the church 
officers meet Monday evening; if they do not—after hearing 
you—dismiss me and give you a ‘call’ they will at least gladly 
join me in recommending you to a church whose pastor is in¬ 
quiring for an assistant. With him you can study the theory 
and practice of ministerial work, for a year or tw T o—as you 
have learned so thoroughly and successfully your present busi¬ 
ness under the same method of instruction—then you can easily 
obtain a pastorate by yourself.” 

The next day Claude gave his consent and began following 
the plan suggested by Walter. A large congregation greeted 
him; the address—though brief—glowed w T ith earnest pathos and 
sparkled with pungent points. At their official meeting the 
church officers recommended him and he was promptly en¬ 
gaged as an assistant to the pastor of a church not far from 
Walter’s field of labor. 

Claude’s personal appearance was even more youthful than 
Walter’s and engaged the interested presence and attention 
of young and old. His cheerful manner and tender sympa¬ 
thies made his ministry acceptable to all classes. 

Silently, however, as the months went by, his unfaltering 


[ 230 ] 



The Dawn Of Day 

zeal wore away what strength a slow working disease had not 
consumed. 

Called to take charge in another field of usefulness, ere he 
had served a year as an assistant, the additional care and re¬ 
sponsibility of a pastor’s duties terminated his young life—so 
full of promise. 

To an early crown—graced with many stars—for souls won 
to the Saviour; to an early rest and reward—Claude Sharon 
passed, lamented by his people and mourned by Walter as but 
few mourn the loss of an own brother. 

Another year of delightful, successful ministry had passed 
since Walter’s last visit to his relatives. Many changes had 
occurred with them. In Rosamond’s home the light of heavenly 
joy had begun to shine; he anticipated happy hours of spiritual 
communion there. How long he had waited and prayed for 
that! 

Relatives could be no kinder than his had been to him; but 
the fellowship of souls, the communion of spirits touched with 
a heavenly affection is more tender than the ties of kinship. 
While not extinguishing natural affections, Christian love sancti¬ 
fies and then envelopes them, as the sunlight swallows up the 
light of the stars, that shine at noon day as in midnight 
darkness. 

Edward had recently married Jessie Spencer and they had 
settled on the farm west of the homestead which his father had 
transferred to him. 

Thus new homes were being formed among his kindred and 
the circle awaiting Walter’s visitation was enlarged. To him, 
however, the most important reason for accepting a leave of ab¬ 
sence from his church—the event that was to have a marked 
influence upon his happiness and usefulness—was his marriage 
to Maud Wellington. The friendship, begun in the schoolroom, 
the brotherly and sisterly regard developed in the home circle 
and at the fireside, had slowly ripened—unthought of at first 
and almost unconsciously to themselves—into that fervid 
affection that makes two hearts one, and essential to each 
other’s happiness. 


[ 231 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


On his arrival in Chicago, Walter took occasion to visit his 
uncle’s family, where—to his great delight—he found Aunt 
Carrie, who had recently returned from California on a visit. 
So unexpected was the meeting, for several minutes she failed to 
recognize in the bearded young man, the boy—Walter—of other 
days. The greeting—when recognition was established—was 
such as a doting mother might have given a long absent son. 

The experiences of the years were passed quickly in review. 
Into her life had entered more of light and joy, which showed in 
her face and sung in her voice—than he had ever seen her 
display. 

“Aunt Carrie,” said Walter, “what have been the principal 
causes of the happiness that seems to have come to crown your 
closing years?” 

“I can hardly name all the causes, Walter, that have con¬ 
tributed to my happiness.” she replied. 

“But,” she added, “all has not been joy since I left Lock- 
wood. I do not wish to complain now, nor cast any unkind 
reflection upon your Uncle Joel’s memory; but I soon learned, 
to my sorrow, after we had been but a few days on our journey 
that his western life had not modified his temper nor softened 
his heart. 

“It was a disappointment to me when I drew from him the 
information that he had not the means to provide us a home of 
our own; but this was not so much a cause of grief to me as his 
austere bearing toward me and the girls. They were young 
ladies then, and were shocked and grieved by his conduct. 

“The hardest thing to bear, however, was that which awaited 
us after our journey ended. The scenery en route was one ever- 
changing panorama, full of pleasure and instruction; but to be 
ushered into a bar-room the first thing and sit down among 
beer kegs and whiskey barrels, to be stared at by brutal, leering 
men and coarse women, was more than I could endure or allow 
the girls to suffer.” 

“Was there no hotel?” asked Walter. 

“That was the name given to that wretched place,” said Aunt 
Carrie—“where bar-room, parlor, office, were all in one; but the 


[ 232 ] 


The Dawn Of Day 


name did not change its character or condition—it was simply 
a saloon, with very inferior hotel attachments. 

Before the sun went down, I had rented some rooms in a 
small cottage, in which to remain until such time as Joel could 
or would provide us a suitable home. 

“For a time he added his earnings to what I received for 
needle work. We were comfortable and would have enjoyed 
life among the new, strange scenes; but, Walter! the saloon, 
which is there as here was the rock on which our domestic hap¬ 
piness split again. Joel, after having enjoyed the comforts of a 
home and the friendship of his family, rapidly changed for the 
better until he began again to drink an occasional glass of stim¬ 
ulants. 

“It was soon learned that he had a deposit in the bank 
which we were saving toward purchasing a house. Every 
gambler and drunkard in town seemed determined to get it 
away from him; a few games, and his money was all gone; 
a few extra drinks, and his old appetite returned; forgetting 
promises, love and purity, he gave himself up to drink and idle¬ 
ness. 

“I bore with him as I had formerly done. The girls pro¬ 
tested, and my own heart and patience well nigh failed me; 
then he was laid upon a bed of lingering illness, from which he 
did not escape until death released him. I schooled my heart 
to pity him more and more, while he cursed the fate he could 
not endure patiently nor escape; he heaped his curses on me, as 
though I had been the cause of all his pain and trouble. Still 
I prayed for patience. It dawned upon me that thus should 
I see accomplished my long cherished wish that he might be¬ 
come a Christian and be saved before he died. 

“The minister called; at first Joel treated him coldly—even 
repelled his friendly advances. Gradually he became more and 
more pleased with him, and eagerly waited for his daily visits. 

“Friends multiplied and great kindness was shown us; but 
none who had helped rob him of his savings or lead him back to 
drinking called to see him or seemed to care or inquire about 
him. 


[ 233 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

“I asked him one day where all his bar-room friends were?” 

“What did he say, Aunt Carrie?” asked Walter. 

“He made no reply,” she answered, “but he looked steadily 
at me for a long time, as if in deep thought, as I sat by his bed¬ 
side sewing. I saw the tears dropping silently upon his pillow. 
‘What is it, Joel?’ I asked, as I laid down my sewing, and took 
his hand in mine. 

“ ‘Oh, Carrie! My poor, wronged, yet patient wife!’ he 
began—but could say no more. For the first time in his life 
with me I saw him weep. The girls in the adjoining room heard 
his sobs and came where we were. 

“He seemed as one who had awakened from a long sleep of 
horrible dreams, only to find they had been living realities, and 
he had not sensed the actual sorrow of a neglected home and 
broken hearts. 

“ ‘A lost life! Can God forgive the sin? Oh, my wdfe! 
My children! Can you, will you forgive me?’ he exclaimed, as 
he saw us three standing by him. 

“Just then the minister called again and talked with him. 
While he was praying, Joel prayed also, saying over and over, 

‘ forgive, forgive, forgive ,;’ then suddenly—after a moment’s 
silence—his voice changed; raising his arms and clasping his 
hands together, he said, 'lost, lost, lost, all lost ;’ then, just as we 
were rising to our feet from kneeling in prayer, around his bed, 
he added, with a cry of joy, ‘ but saved at last .’ 

“He asked us to sing and joined us, with a feeble, trembling 
voice. He continued thus the few remaining days he lived. 

“They were days full of happiness, such as I had not seen 
since the time when I was first married, which continued until 
the accursed cup came in between us, and I discovered that 
human love alone was not enough to help him keep the promise 
to abstain, which he had made me. For those few parting 
hours I did not regret all I had suffered on Joel’s account, if it 
was essential to his salvation. They sweetened all the bitter 
past; they will brighten my future days.” 

Never had Aunt Carrie seemed to Walter so grand and true 
as while she was pouring into his willing ears her heart’s story 


[ 234 ] 


The Dawn Of Day 


and the record of events in her life since last he saw and con¬ 
versed with her. Then he listened as to a counsellor; now as to 
a companion. 

His cousins—Aunt Carrie’s daughters—who had been his 
companions in infancy and youth, were married, and to them 
and their children she returned at the conclusion of her visit to 
friends in Lockwood—to spend the closing years of her life, sur¬ 
rounded with plenty and to enjoy that peace which only love and 
goodness give. 


[ 235 ] 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


A Dark Picture. 

Leaving Chicago, where he had met Aunt Carrie, Walter 
arrived at Lockwood just as the day’s work was over; laboring 
men were pouring out of factory and shop and mill. 

Through the car window—as the train stopped—he saw Rosa¬ 
mond standing on the platform. 

Llad she been raised from a bed of sickness and nourished 
back to ruddy health, the change could not have seemed more 
marked than that which he saw depicted on her face, in contrast 
with the appearance of hastened age she had worn so long—a 
look that gives ripeness and dignity to one of years, but mars 
early womanhood. 

The picture of brow, eyes, cheeks and lips, now presented for 
one moment through the car window, recalled to Walter’s 
mind the memory of his sister's happy expression on her wed¬ 
ding day. 

A brother's partial eyes saw all this at a single glance and it 
made him gladly surprised. His astonishment, however, was 
fully as great when Clarence approached him with a frankness 
of manner, born of conscious uprightness—and grasped his 
hand to bid him welcome. He appeared as one who has noth¬ 
ing on even the most secret page of his daily life he would hide 
from public gaze. All that Claude Sharon had told about his 
changed appearance was plainly manifest; still more proofs 
were given, however, when, after tea the little ones had 
been put to rest, Walter sat with Rosamond and Clarence in 
the parlor of their farm home. 

The door was open, and through it he saw the lights shining 
in Lockwood; then he turned his gaze toward the multitude of 
stars that gemmed the eastern sky that mild May night. As 


[ 236 ] 



A Dark Picture 


the gentle southern breeze came floating over Mr. Steele’s 
orchard it seemed heavily charged and filled all the house with 
the perfume of apple blossoms and plum and cherry. 

A whip-poor-will, hidden in the branches of the lone cotton¬ 
wood in the meadow, w T as sounding his mournful refrain. A 
tree toad by the w T ell curb, now 7 and then gurgled forth a gut- 
teral trill. Occasionally the rattle of wheels and the thud of 
horses hoofs were heard, as some belated farmer hurried home¬ 
ward. 

Common words were, for a time, spoken about common things. 
Then Walter, addressing Clarence, said: “I noticed this evening 
as we drove from the depot there were scores of men, evidently 
returning home from work. Industries must be on the increase 
in Lockwood!” 

“Yes, they are; but withal,” said Clarence, “the place does 
not improve as one would expect.” 

“I noticed as w 7 e rode along the principal business streets,” 
Walter remarked, “but few new blocks or stores have been 
built—many old ones are standing empty. Why is it so?” 

“Well, it is a simple story, Walter,” Clarence replied. “The 
profits of the manufacturing interests go into a few hands; 
although the money paid for labor amounts to large sums every 
month, and-” 

“But,” said Walter, “excuse me for interrupting you—I did 
not see many people in the stores or groceries trading. It 
would seem that so much money paid out monthly for labor 
would make all branches of trade lively; in addition, the farmers 
must have their share of merchandise, in exchange for their 
produce—but then, I suppose the farmers had gone home, and 
the mill and factory employees were hurrying home to their 
supper at that hour.” 

“You may be surprised at my question—but I see things 
through different eyes, Walter, than w T hen you were here last,” 
said Clarence, “but I w T ant to ask if you noticed how many 
w T orking men were going in and out of the saloons, and how 
many farmers teams were standing before their doors—some, no 
doubt, standing there yet? That, Walter, will explain why w 7 e 


[ 237 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 

have so many stores empty and slim patronage for those that 
are occupied.” 

“Yes, Clarence, I did notice those things,” said Walter; “but 
how do you explain them? I have a theory of my own; but I 
want plenty of proof that I am right or else I wish to be proven 
wrong and abandon my theory.” 

“I do not theorize on the situation, Walter; what I am about 
to say, I speak from experience,” said Clarence, as an expres¬ 
sion of sadness passed over his face and he cast a look, full of 
pity, at Rosamond. 

“When a man goes into a saloon for a glass of liquor of any 
kind at the close of the day—especially pay day—as those men 
did, he usually pays for five or ten glasses; instead of drinking 
one glassful he drinks several. He treats and must be treated. 
Many men go in intending to spend only five or ten cents, but 
before they come out they may have spent their day’s or week’s 
earnings; yes,” he added, with a far away look in his eyes— 
“even the proceeds of a whole season’s hard work. They have 
received nothing in exchange they can take home to their fami¬ 
lies, and have little or no money left with which they or their 
families can go elsewhere and buy what is needed ; the stores 
and groceries are not crowded because the saloons are.” 

“Does not the money remain in the community and reach 
the merchants through the patronage of the saloon keepers?” 
inquired Walter. 

“Only a small portion of it is thus expended in our stores and 
groceries,” Clarence replied, and then asked: “What would the 
custom of several hundred families amount to if the saloons were 
closed and the money spent there was paid to the merchants in 
exchange for goods? It seems clear that but little of the 
money spent for drink goes to increase the bulk of trade on 
account of the patronage of a few saloon keepers and their 
families. 

“The retail trade in liquor is for cash, because the law seems 
to say to a man when he pays for the privilege of selling, ‘you 
must take your own chances of getting your pay for the liquor 
you sell,’ hence, customers at the saloons are required by the 


[ 238 ] 


A Dark Picture 


proprietors to pay cash or an equivalent when they purchase 
intoxicating drinks. 

“The merchants and grocers, if they sell goods on credit, can 
collect their bills by law, because it is allowed on all hands they 
have given an equivalent for the money paid or the price asked. 
Not so when liquor is sold to a consumer. 

“But drinking men squander so much of what they earn, 
their credit is soon gone; becoming unfit to labor, their employ¬ 
ment is uncertain, because unreliable, thus their custom be¬ 
comes small and trade is made lighter. Some men, who do not 
spend all for drink or in treating, lose much in gambling. 
Almost every saloon has one or more men employed who are 
sharp, unprincipled persons, skilled in all the sleights and 
tricks of cards, dice, and all chance games. They know’ very 
well how to lose a few games—and let their opponents—if new 
in the business (?) of gambling—win and think they are on the 
road to fortune. They also know how to win a game—by fair 
means or foul—and get back all they have lost and more too. 

“Young men are induced to play for sport at first; then for 
small w’agers—cigars, light drinks and so on—gaining at first, 
afterwards losing. In order to regain what they lose they often 
forge their father’s names, embezzle from their employers, rob 
and even kill to obtain money to gamble with. That is what 
made Chauncy Harding—with wdiom you attended high school 
in Lockw’ood, Walter—and the young man from Chicago, break 
into Dr. Hartly’s drug store; being discovered, the young man 
was shot and killed while trying to escape; Chauncy was 
arrested, but was let off for his family’s sake. 

“Farmers wall haul their grain and other produce to market; 
then, having drawm the pay for it—pleased with the returns for 
the season’s work—they will often step into the saloon with 
someone usually on the lookout to invite them—to get a glass of 
beer. When they come to treat in turn—as is the custom— 
they display their money too freely—while paying their bill. 
Cash is not an every day commodity with many farmers, 
hence, when they have plenty, they are tempted to express their 
delight by showing it. 


[ 239 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“In a saloon they become the subjects for which gamblers 
are looking. If they can, they induce them to play some game; 
after an exciting experience in winning, they lose all—for that 
is the way it usually ends.” 

Clarence’s voice had in it a tone of remorse and indignation 
as he added the remark, “they go home beaten out of the 
fruits of their season’s hard labor and not infrequently beaten 
in body, as bitter quarrels frequently occur over the game. 

“If a man cannot be induced to gamble, often his drink is 
drugged; when he recovers from the effects he will often find 
himself in some strange place, dazed and penniless. 

“A cattle dealer exposed his purse—containing a large sum 
of money—when he was paying for a drink of brandy; shortly 
after he called for another glass and drank it; he found himself 
a few days later in an empty freight car, in a strange city, hun¬ 
dreds of miles from home, without a dollar.” 

“Can it be possible, Clarence, such things have happened in 
Lockwood?” asked Walter. 

“Only too often,” he replied; “and such things did not hap¬ 
pen merely; they were the results of deliberate planning. As I 
have already said, there are men whose business it is to do such 
things and the saloons are the places to plan or do them. Many 
of the men are well educated, fine looking men, but they do 
not scruple to rob a man if they cannot get his money any 
other way.” 

“Why are they not arrested and punished?” asked Walter. 

“You know,” Clarence replied, “that no man who has 
been beaten at his own game or in bad company likes to admit 
it. When men get drunk, therefore, and are kicked out of the 
saloons, or are injured, or lose their money there—no matter by 
what means—they are not inclined to expose their own wrong¬ 
doing by entering complaints against their associates. A few 
arrests have been made by parents or friends of the unfortunate. 
But, as the loser or sufferer was usually his own and only wit¬ 
ness—and generally there were several on the other side, to 
swear they never saw him in the place, or that his accusations 
were not true—the jury would acquit or disagree and no one 


[ 240 ] 


A Dark Picture 


was punished. The same things occur again and again here as 
elsewhere. 

“It is with shame I confess it, Walter! I have seen such 
things with my own eyes. I have lost money in such ways which 
my family needed, or that I owed for what I had already ob¬ 
tained at the stores and groceries on credit. I lost friends who 
were disposed to be kind to me; I wasted my time and health in 
dissipation; worse than all, I have caused Rosamond to suffer 
during the past few years that which no one but she can tell.” 
His voice trembled while tears gathered in his eyes. 

“Let us not talk about that, Clarence! that is all passed 
now,” said Rosamond, who had been a silent but interested 
listener as he gave her and her brother a description—so startling 
and unknown to them—of the methods by which men and boys 
begin and continue a course of gambling and dissipation. 

“Yes, it is passed, Rosamond!” said her husband, “and the 
marvel to me now is that I should have pursued such a wrong 
course so long.” 

“What led you to make a change, Clarence?” asked Walter, 
as he drew the large rocking chair across the room and sat down 
before the sofa, on which Rosamond and her husband were 
sitting. 

“It is a long story,” said Clarence, who after a short silence 
added: “I can hardly tell just what it was nor why; I had 
reached a point where I could not stop. I had lost my 
money and could get no more; my family were in need of many 
comforts; we have this house and farm, it is true, but they are 
heavily mortgaged and I could pay nothing on principal or 
interest. I felt no one cared for me nor could I justly blame 
them—I had ceased to care for anyone, and despaired of my¬ 
self. I hated my own life, but did not dare to put an end to it— 
although often tempted to do so.” 

“Where were you when you decided to quit your wicked way 
of living?” asked Walter, eagerly. 

“I was in Lockwood,” he answered. “I took Martin to the 
early train the morning he started to visit you last winter. 
I was coming home from the depot when Sam Packard—whom 


[ 241 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


you remember—saw me and asked me to stop. Telling him I 
must hurry home with some coal—for we were nearly out of 
fuel and a change in the weather was threatening, I started on. 
He urged me so strongly to step into Seely’s billiard room and 
get a cigar, that I hitched my team and went with him.” 

“I feel disgraced every time I think of Seely’s sign over the 
door that leads into his bar and billiard room,” said Walter, 
interrupting Clarence. “His initial is the same as Edward’s. 
When I get letters with his return address on the envelopes, or 
when I answer them, I am glad the postmaster and clerks, 
where I get my mail, are not acquainted here, or they would 
think I was corresponding very regularly with a saloon keeper. 
What do you think?” said he, laughingly, “only last Autumn I 
met a gentleman in Alden at a public gathering who, when I 
was introduced to him, began looking at me in a very quizzical 
way and said he knew my father very well, as he was frequently 
in Lockwood as a traveling man. Of course, as he said he had 
just come from here, I inquired about all of you; he seemed 
ignorant of your very existence; he did not know father owned 
a farm and was not acquainted with either of my brothers, 
whom ‘father’ (?) had not mentioned to him. Observing he 
was mistaken in some way, I asked him where he had so recently 
met my father. Coloring deeply, he reluctantly answered, ‘I 
mel him at his bar and in his billard room.’ ‘Not much did 
you meet my father at a bar or in a billiard room!” I said to 
him—measuring his morals and manhood by his answer. 

“I further said to him, ‘that man Seely is not my father, nor 
is his business that which my father approves, but condemns as 
strongly as I do.” 

“Well!” he replied, “I thought it very strange that a man in 
Seely’s business would continue in it when he had a son who 
is a minister.” 

The three laughed heartily at this recital relative to their 
brother Edward’s namesake, after which Walter asked Clarence 
more particularly about what occurred after he entered Seely’s 
billiard room. 

“Sam asked me to play a game of billiards,” Clarence con- 


[ 242 ] 


A Dark Picture 


tinued, “but I told him I had no money with me. ‘Never 
mind,’ he answered, as he paid for the cigars and treated ine to a 
couple of drinks. We played a number of games, by which 
time I began to feel the effects of the liquor I drank; I then pro¬ 
posed to play more if he would pay Seely’s bill against us when 
we got through playing, and would take my ‘due bill’ for what 
he won from me while playing, and I would pay him when I got 
some money. He consented to this, thinking—no doubt—I 
must have considerable grain and stock to sell, and would have 
plenty of money, which he would get from me as he had often 
done before; but I knew very well there was nothing in my purse, 
and no prospect of there being being very much for some time to 
come. Different persons came and went during the day. 


[ 243 ] 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


Renewed Hearts and A Happy Home. 

“Occasionally someone would take a hand in a game with us? 
before I was aware of it the sun had gone down; Seely had low¬ 
ered the curtains to his windows and was lighting his lamps. 
I had wasted the whole day. My horses had stood where I 
left them in the cold, without blankets—for I intended to be 
gone but a few minutes when I left them. 

“My head and brain seemed on fire from the drinks and the 
excitement. While I had won occasionally, I was a heavy 
loser. Sam had my due bills for a large amount payable on 
demand. Still we played on, without any supper, until after 
ten o’clock. We smoked and drank and played until long after 
midnight. Suddenly it seemed to me I was made to realize the 
awful thing I was doing. I threw the cards down upon the 
table, and said I was done playing cards. Sam remarked 
that he also was tired and sleepy and left the place, quite sober. 
I drove home, but such a drive I never made from Lockwood 
nor with such feelings! I could hardly manage the horses; 
they were cold and I was dizzy. I knew Rosamond would be 
up and looking for me. I had promised her and Martin both 
that morning I would return home and not go near a saloon— 
although I had refused for a long time to make such a prom¬ 
ise—as I had done so—almost a thousand times it seemed— 
only to break my promise, when confronted with temptation. 
I dreaded to meet Rosamond, not through fear, but for shame. 
I cursed Sam, I cursed Seely. I stamped my feet; I took the 
whip and struck the horses a fearful blow; they plunged ahead 
in the darkness, nearly running off from a bridge. When they 
reached the top of the steep hill, this side of the river, I got con¬ 
trol of them again. As they jogged along more slowly the rest 
of the way home, I asked myself, what shall I do? From bad to 


[ 244 ] 



Renewed Hearts—A Happy Home 

worse I am steadily going. By all I knew of what is good, I 
wished I could be better. I thought of my own mother; I 
thought of yours, Walter; I thought of you and what you said 
to me, when my little boy died; I wished I had died with him 
then.” 

They were all three weeping now, so Clarence could not pro¬ 
ceed, nor could they listen; but their tears were tears of joy, 
not of sorrow and dread. 

Walter now understood how God had heard and answered 
his prayer, which he was praying, while Clarence was gambling 
at the same small hours of the night, although they were hun¬ 
dreds of miles apart. 

When all had become composed again, Walter asked: “How 
long, Clarence, before you experienced a change by which you 
realized you had received a new power within, by which you 
could do and have really done, what you so much wished to? 
I should also be glad to know how it came about,” said Walter. 

“I found Rosamond watching for me,” Clarence replied; 
“so, after unhitching and stabling my hungry horses, I ate the 
lunch she had in readiness for me and went to bed, but not to 
sleep. I was haunted with an awful sense of fear, and yet it 
seemed as if something good was coming to me. Gathering 
up enough fuel about the place in the morning to last until my 
return, I went to Lockwood for the coal I failed to get the day 
before. 

“At the coal yard ‘Uncle Mitchell’—an old colored man, 
whom you probably remember—assisted me in loading; while 
we were putting the coal in the wagon he said to me: ‘We’s 
habin pow’ful’ good meetin’s at de meetin’ house ebery night, 
Massa Fa’nswo’th; I’d be mighty glad to see yo’ an' yo’r wife 
coinin’ to jine de meetin’. Brudder Parton’s a mighty nice 
man; I t’inks a heap o’ Brudder Parton, I do’s, ’and he laughed 
heartily as he said it. 

“I said to him, ‘Uncle Mitchell! I am not good enough to 
come to church.’ 

“ ‘Yo’ slior’ly ort’ to come, to git good, Massa Fa’nswo’th,’ 
he remarked. ‘Jesus am pow’ful to sabe po’ sinners, an’ he 


[ 245 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


lubs ’em all—de white sheeps an’ de brack;’ again he laughed 
and seemed so happy. 

“I envied him his joy. I did not promise him I would come 
to the meeting, but on my way home, recalling his words about 
the black sheep—which he intended to apply to his own race 
and color—I applied them to myself—to my heart—for I felt it 
was blacker than his face. 

“That evening I went back to Lockwood—not telling Rosa¬ 
mond what I w T ent for; but really it was to attend the meeting. 
I put the horses in a barn—a thing I had not been in the habit 
of doing, but had left them out; at all hours and in all kinds of 
weather. The church was full; the singing was beautiful—I 
love music, but I could not sing that night, for the tears would 
flow and I could not prevent them—I did not want to. I 
was sorrowful as I thought of my past life and weeping seemed 
to do me good. I felt so w^eak and helpless, but Uncle Mitchell’s 
words about ‘Jesus’ power to save sinners,’ gave me hope. 
The sermon Mr. Par ton preached seemed addressed wholly to me. 

“I listened to the prayers by people whom I knew to be good 
citizens. In the saloons, however, I had often heard them ridi¬ 
culed, religion made light of and ministers accused of every¬ 
thing bad. But there they were, praying for the drunkard and 
outcast; earnestly asking God also to forgive and cleanse every 
evil thought even from their hearts. 

“Those with wdioin I had associated were wicked, not only in 
their thoughts, but in words and deeds; I never heard one of 
them confess his wrong, nor ask forgiveness of anyone. 

“I resolved then and there I would exchange my associates 
and the bar-room for the church and such people as I heard 
singing and praying around me. When the meeting closed, I 
asked ‘Uncle Mitchel’ to come and see me the next day; I 
wanted to talk with him. When I reached home earlier than 
usual, Rosamond saw I was sober and had no smell of liquor on 
my breath; she was surprised—all the more so when I told her 
I had been to church.” 

“What did you think of that, Rosamond?” asked Walter, 
smiling. 


[ 246 ] 



Renewed Hearts — A Happy Home 

“I doubted it at first,” she replied; “but when I became con¬ 
vinced where he had been, I remembered what you told me— 
‘a brighter day will yet dawn,’ and I thought it might be 
near.” 

“Dear ‘Uncle Mitchel’—the good old soul!” exclaimed 
Walter. “I heard him pray when I first began attending 
church; he prayed for me the night I was converted. Did he 
come over to see you, away out here, Clarence?” asked Walter. 

“Yes,” Clarence replied; “although it turned very cold in 
the night—snowed and drifted in the road badly before morn¬ 
ing. I concluded he would not come, so after breakfast I took 
the Bible and tried to read. The children seemed astonished 
to see me weeping while I read it. I guess Rosamond hardly 
realized what it meant,” he said, turning an inquiring glance 
toward his wife. “So many things I read brought back 
thoughts of the past! It seemed as if I was viewing my life 
and character, reflected in a mirror. 

“While the storm was still very severe and exceedingly cold, 
I looked out of the window and saw ‘Uncle Mitchel’ plodding 
slowly through the drifts, while the wind blew the snow in his 
face. It flashed through my mind, how sincere that old man is! 
He certainly is a Christian or he would not have ventured over 
here such a day as this, simply because he thinks I am in 
trouble of mind and wants to help me, hoping I may become 
a Christian! I went out to meet him; he was too exhausted to 
speak until he had reached the house. After resting some min¬ 
utes he said: 

“ Ts—mighty weak—an’ tired—an’ col’, Massa Fa’nswo’th— 
but I’s—pow’ful glad—t’ see yo’. I’s bin prayin’ fo’ yo’— 
all de w T ay f’om Lockwood—I hope yo’ so'l is well dis yer 
mo’nin.’ 

“I told him I felt far from well in my soul, but his coming 
would make me better. 

“ No! No! Massa Fa’nswo’th! I can’t make yo’ no bettah; 
Jesus am de only physici’n—fo’ sick hawts,’ he said, very 
meekly. 

“When w r e saw him coming, Rosamond put on the kettle to 


[ 247 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


make him a cup of coffee and brought it to him just then. 
After he drank some of it and began to feel its warnth, he bright¬ 
ened up and said to Rosamond, 4 Yo’ is gwine to be a tru’ d’ciple 
Missus Fa’nswo’th, an’ yo’ is gwine to git a d’ciple’s rewa’d.’ 

“ ‘What makes you think so, “Uncle Mitchel,” Rosamond 
asked. 

“ ‘Yo’ kno’, he replied, ‘de good book say yo’ is gwine to git 
a d’ciple’s rewa’d, ef yo' gibs the Lo’ds chile—an’ I’s one—ef 
yo’ gibs him a cup o’ col’ watah, an’ I spects dat means a cup o’ 
hot coffee, jes’ de same,’ and he laughed as though his old body 
had not just recovered from being chilled to the bone.” 

“Well, he had a right to indulge in a little pious pleasantry,” 
said Walter. “The only things his race had in slavery worth 
bringing out with them into a state of freedom were their pray¬ 
ers, good humor and songs. It is wonderful how—without 
learning in man’s wisdom—many of them have become wise in 
the deep things of God.” 

“Yes,” said Clarence, “and ‘Uncle Mitchel’ proved himself 
a wise teacher to me that day. Ilis explanation of the Scrip¬ 
tures, as I read different passages, showed me my condition 
and duty very plainly and that, with his prayers, helped me 
toward a better life. The storm passed over, but he remained 
until evening, when he and Rosamond and I went to meeting 
together. I experienced a change of heart while there that 
evening. As near as I can describe it, the sense of guilt from my 
past life was removed from my mind and heart, like a dark 
cloud from before the sun. I felt the future appeared as when 
we look toward an unclouded sky. I have liked the church 
people from that hour. They have been very kind to us. 
Mr. Parton is a frequent visitor at our house. I see plainly 
now the wrong was in me and in those I associated with, or we 
never would have said what we did about Christians and min¬ 
isters. I want to tell you one thing, Walter—if you have not 
already discovered it—true ministers are among the best 
friends of the drunkard and his family. Another thing I firmly 
believe is true—if the saloon is ever done away with, it will be 
chiefly through the influence of the puplit, by agitating the ques- 


[ 248 ] 


Renewed Hearts—A Happy Home 

tion until the people’s minds are enlightened and their con¬ 
sciences aroused.” 

“Your experience has done me good, Clarence; it has strength¬ 
ened my faith; I shall remember it,” said Walter. “Your ideas 
concerning the relation of ministers to the intemperate and the 
temperance reform are well worth considering, but it does sound 
strange to hear such words coming from your lips and out of 
your heart, as I believe they do; it is also very pleasing to think 
of you as belonging to a Christian church.” 

“It seemed strange to me at first—as strange as when I first 
heard you preach—I could hardly make myself believe it was 
you,” Clarence remarked, pleasantly, and added, “I find hap¬ 
piness in Christian fellowship and service; I feel strong in the 
presence of temptations to which I once readily and helplessly 
yielded. My mind is occupied with thoughts of other things 
and I feel no inclination to my old ways. 

“I should regard it as an insult for my old companions— 
knowing of my reformation and former life—were they to ask 
me to drink or gamble with them. No man is my friend or the 
friend of my family who would try to draw me back again. 
Was there no future reward I am being well paid each day in 
the peace of mind I enjoy and the happiness it affords me to 
see Rosamond happy once more—the furrows disappearing 
from her forehead and the color coming back to her cheeks. 

“I have much to do and much to undo, but I hope by indus¬ 
try and economy to cancel my debts and have a home for my¬ 
self and family in our old age.” 

As Walter listened to Clarence he was impressed with his sin¬ 
cerity and breathed an earnest prayer that he might have grace 
to always resist temptation and fulfill his purposes. lie saw 
anew something in Rosamond’s position and the happy expres¬ 
sion on her face, that recalled a summer evening scene years 
before when, through the partly opened parlor door, he saw 
her and Clarence in the old home before marriage, sitting—as 
now—side by side on the sofa, hands clasped, while the light of 
love filled their hearts and illuminated their faces. 

While they had been talking, the night had worn away; the 


[ 249 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


day was dawning over the forests beyond Lockwood. Bowing 
together they prayed. Walter’s voice led them in offering true 
thanksgiving to the merciful and Gracious One who heard 
and helped. 

Wakening from a short sleep snatched from the early morn¬ 
ing hours they gathered with the children at the family board, 
w T hen Walter—for the first time—heard Clarence “say grace,” 
which Rosamond had said years before, she wished he might 
“some day find it in his heart to do.” Then, in the midst of 
his family—breakfast being over—Walter heard him read from 
the Word of God and thank the Infinite Father for mercies and 
blessings received and invoke His continued care. 

As they arose from their devotions, Walter could but exclaim, 
Happy hearts! Happy home! 


[ 250 ] 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Working and Waiting. 

A few hours at his father’s and Edward’s for exchange of 
greetings, then Walter hastened to Plainwell to Mrs. Welling¬ 
ton’s, where he had long felt he had a second home. He now 
came with a new and peculiar purpose. 

It was an hour of mingled joy and sadness. Of joy to him 
and Maud Wellington, who were so soon to cross the threshold 
of her old home, to enter a new one—their own—together. Of 
sadness to Mrs. Wellington, the thought of which pressed 
heavily upon her feelings; but she would not suffer the shadows 
of loneliness that were to fall on her own heart to obscure the 
bright joys of those who were so dear to her. It was a happy 
group that assembled in her parlor that evening to witness the 
marriage service. The occasion was one void of display— 
conspicuous indeed for its Christian simplicity, both in toilets 
and testimonials—as became the contracting parties, in view of 
their holy calling. A short time was spent at Walters farm home. 

A few days more and they reached the scenes where they to¬ 
gether were to live, love and influence each other and those 
among whom Walter was to minister. Then—when a few 
months had passed—Mrs. Wellington joined them, to find a cor¬ 
dial welcome and a home. Called to another field at length, 
Walter found human needs the same, all satisfying qualities in 
the Divine provisions. 

The greatest cause of wrong and suffering—the crying sin of 
all—that he discovered there, even more than in the former 
field of his ministry, was intemperance. A hundred saloons, 
open brothels and dens of infamy, poured out their vile odors 
and influences, drawing scores and hundred in, as to the vortex 
of a deadly maelstrom. 

He united his voice with those in other pulpits. Stimulated 


[ 251 ] 




Chronicles of a Farm House 


by the recollection of Clarence Farnsworth’s words, he raised 
it against personal indulgence in alcoholic beverages, and pri¬ 
vate or public endorsement of the traffic, by either individuals, 
municipalities, state or national governments. 

Maud lent her time and influence in connection with the 
efforts of other Christian women to stem the tide, to rescue those 
who were being already borne down and prevent the young and 
innocent from plunging into the deadly stream. But, alas! 
Every saloon was as a trap door in a bridge across the surging 
torrent. In vain to man a lifeboat, thinking its work was 
done, when one or a few were rescued, for another and another 
and evermore, they were falling through and plunging down. 
Those who built the bridge and guarded it seemed indifferent, 
yea, many laughed at the struggles of those who went down 
and spurned them when they cried for help. In vain almost, 
seemed temperance societies, asylums, refuges, Sunday schools 
and churches established and maintained at great cost and labor! 

Walter and Maud saw plainly that, wffiile each agency was 
doing grand w r ork and they, with others, rejoiced over the 
measure of success achieved, still all were dealing mainly with 
effects and w r ere doing but little to remove the great cause. 

As the years rolled on, wdth the zeal and wisdom of mature 
manhood, Walter continued to pray, preach and work, ever 
confronted w T ith the aw T ful curse of rum, the victims of which 
w r ere to be found at every turn. 

“Could you give me back my noble boy, w T ho went out from 
me so pure and innocent, and now comes back—still only a 
youth, but a drunkard,” said one mother to Walter, “I w T ould 
gladly bare my right arm and let you cut it from my body.” 
When he heard such sad w r ails from broken-hearted women— 
especially mothers—he ceased to mourn the blasted hopes that 
w^ere buried in the grave with his first born, nor w r ould he have 
called him back to earth and its temptations. 

When his little daughter—image of her mother in miniature— 
climbed upon his knees, after his visitations to the homes of 
drunkards, to hear the recital of the w r oes and sorrows of their 
wives and children, he w r ould clasp her to his heart, trembling 


[ 252 ] 


Wwiring and Waiting 


as he thought of the mournful possibilities that awaited her. 
How could he endure the thought even of her womanhood being 
embittered one year or one hour, as Rosamond’s and Aunt 
Carrie’s had been, by their husband’s slavery to drink—even 
though followed by days or years of happiness after reforma¬ 
tion and redemption came? 

With a deepening interest and sympathy for destitute and 
homeless children, especially those rendered such by the intem¬ 
perate habits of their parents, Walter began planning how best 
to rescue them from their sad environments. 

Seeing a small girl, poorly clad, sitting aloof from others at an 
evening service, he went to her at the close. 

She told him her father was dead; she had no real home; her 
mother—addicted to drink—was often away or in prison. He 
called to see the little girl; after a long search he found her; her 
mother chanced to be present. 

Resentful at first for his call, his kind words and interest in 
her child, led her to tell him her history. She had been married 
to a kind, industrious young man when fourteen years old; 
was the mother of the little girl when fifteen; was left a widow 
at sixteen; married again to a dissipated man when seventeen, 
who led her into his evil habits and company and then aban¬ 
doned her and her child when she was eighteen; she was in turn 
abandoned by respectable people, with herself and child to 
support. 

Walter moved her to tears, as he plead with her, in behalf of 
her child and for her own sake, to choose a better life. To his 
earnest pleadings her only answer was: “I can’t; bad people 
pull me down; good people won’t help me up.” 

Enough of real “motherhood” was left in her, however, to 
lead her to consent to a full surrender of her daughter—then 
ten years of age—to the care of Walter and his wife, who took 
her into their own home, to share its love and comforts with 
their own child, a girl of her own age. Under the influence of 
her new environment the poor waif soon blossomed into a re¬ 
fined and conscientious child, and was soon “planted” in the 
church and Sunday school. To the care of a refined child 


[ 253 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


less home she was finally transferred and grew to splendid 
womanhood—to adorn at length a home of her own. 

Thus Walter began and added to his other activities a child 
rescue work, that changed the course of hundreds of little ones, 
and bridged the chasm over which the homeless children passed 
to the care and comforts of childless homes. 

The cost of this additional work Walter found was amply 
provided for, by his unsalaried plan adopted years before, by 
steadfast trust in the “Father of the fatherless.” 

Occasional visits and correspondence kept Walter informed 
concerning the changes occurring at the home and among the 
friends of his boyhood. Not without a pang did he learn that 
his father had disposed of the homestead, after having achieved 
his desires concerning his children, by seeing them settled in 
homes of their own, which largely his paternal foresight had 
aided them in procuring. 

A commodious abode in Plainwell—amply fitted to the gen¬ 
erous hospitality they were accustomed to extend to relatives 
and friends—became the home to which Mr. Seely and his wife 
moved when they sold their farm. 

The quiet streets, the pleasant homes, the intelligence and 
morality of the people, attracted them no more than the so¬ 
briety that prevailed in this “no license” town. 

Not a saloon exhaled its vile odors into his nostrils as Mr. 
Seely walked the business streets. No reeling, maudlin 
wrecks met him at every turn, to cause him and other men to 
step aside and women and children to turn and flee. 

No starred policeman at every corner, as if to protect the 
criminal makers and wreckers of human happiness, while doing 
their awful work, then to seize the criminals or drunken imbeciles 
and drag them to prison, to be maintained at public expense or 
fined, to enrich the public treasury, while their families become 
the wards of public charity or private philanthropy. 

For these reasons chiefly, Mr. Seely decided to locate in 
Plainwell rather than in Lockwood or Juliet. It was with great 
satisfaction to Walter and his family that his father and mother 
now accepted an invitation to make them a visit. Even their 


[ 254 ] 


Working and Waiting 


prattling child awaited with eagerness the coining of her grand¬ 
parents, whom she had not seen, but of whom she had often 
heard. 

This first visit of his father to him in his own home was an 
experience that filled Walter with a new delight. 

He did not at first recognize as his father the aged retired 
farmer coming through the crowd, which alighted from the train 
or was standing on the platform to welcome friends. 

Increasing age and recent illness had whitened Mr. Seely’s 
hair and thinned his features. 

The motherly face of Mrs. Seely was a benediction to behold. 
The change and daily recreations that followed were of great 
benefit in renewing Mr. Seely’s energies. Long rambles 
through the woods, or boating and fishing together, recalled to 
Walter’s mind the former times, when his father would take 
him and his brothers on nutting excursions, or from the banks 
of the river that flowed past Lockwood he would bait a hook or 
drop a line with them, always causing them to feel a fine string 
of bass or pickerel was sure to be caught if he was present to 
try his skill. 

“The same old charm, as I live!” exclaimed Walter, as he 
saw his father draw one shining fish after another from the 
water of the clear lake, to which he had persuaded him to 
accompany him. Pleased with their success on this special 
occasion, they retraced their steps homeward. 

When they reached the city and walked down the streets 
their fine string of fish attracted the attention and inquiring re¬ 
marks of the bystanders whom they passed. 

Observing the number of saloons along the streets, Mr. Seely 
asked Walter how many there were in the city and the number 
of the population. 

Walter replied, “there are one hundred places selling under 
regular licenses, and our population is twenty-five thousand.” 

“No doubt, the costs made to the city, by crime and pauper¬ 
ism caused by the large amount of liquor consumed, must be 
very great,” suggested Mr, Seely. 

“They are, sir!” Walter replied;“seventeen thousand dollars a 


[ 255 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


year, besides about as much is saved the city by private char¬ 
ity; while the sight of so much distress and want makes some 
people hard and indifferent, it moves the sympathies of others 
and stirs their generous impulses. 

“In giving you the figures I did, I have done so after a care¬ 
ful inquiry of the proper authorities, from whom I am certain 
I obtained the facts, though the figures contradict the theory of 
those who gave them to me; they favor licensing saloons and 
were elected on that issue. Many seem to shut their eyes to 
every other view of the question, while thinking of the revenue 
the license fees bring into the treasury of the city.” 

“It seems to me men are blinded and labor under a sad delu¬ 
sion,” remarked Mr. Seely, “who think it is profitable to raise 
public revenues in that w r ay. You know, Walter, I have made 
no public profession of religion, nor subscribed to any church 
rules or creed, yet my innate sense of right makes it seem to me 
immoral and inhuman to fill the public coffers at the expense 
of the public peace and safety or by causing the health and hap¬ 
piness of a large portion of the community to be destroyed. 

“It is mean and niggardly to accept or resort to such a 
method to escape personal taxation for the public benefit and 
cow T ardly and w r eak to say a public w r rong cannot be stopped in 
an order-loving community such as this city seems capable of 
being. 

“I presume I notice the state of things here more because 
there are no saloons in Plainwell. The expense fund is raised 
by direct taxation, almost entirely; we are all glad to have it so. 
We think it economical, as well as more safe and humane than 
the method of depending on money obtained from licensing 
saloons and running the risks they would entail upon us. Our 
public expense account is not heavy in porportion to our popula¬ 
tion. Having nothing to produce disorder, w 7 e need no expensive 
police force; our jail is nearly always empty. Most of our 
laboring men have each a horse or cow t , pigs and poultry. They 
' purchase a large amount of grain from the farmers in the sur¬ 
rounding country to feed their animals and fowds.” 

“That w T ould indicate,” said Walter, “that the farmers w^ould 


[ 256 ] 


Working and Waiting 


be benefited by stopping the manufacture and sale of beer and 
all intoxicating beverages derived from grain.” 

“Certainly,” his father remarked; “for the man who spends 
his money for drink does not consume a tithe of the grain—if 
used to prepare the beverages consumed which he and his 
family would use as food. He would also be able to procure more 
and better quality of vegetables, fruits, groceries, dry goods, 
furniture, by being temperate; thus all classes of trade would be 
benefited, as well as the farmers.” 

“Why do not business men and politicians see these facts, 
father, and act upon them in their own interest, if for no other 
reason?” asked Walter. 

Remembering that Maud had asked him to order some grocer¬ 
ies, he requested his father to enter one of the leading business 
places with him. Just ahead of them, a man—slightly intoxi¬ 
cated—came out of a saloon door and staggered into the grocery 
which they were about to enter. 

After much pleading for a few articles on credit, the grocery- 
man reluctantly accommodated him, exacting a promise from 
the man that he would pay that and other accounts very soon. 

“A few such customers as that would ruin any man’s busi¬ 
ness,” the merchant remarked to Walter, in the hearing of Mr. 
Seely. 

“Why do you trust him if he cannot pay you?” asked Walter. 

“Because I feel sorry for his family,” was the reply, to which 
was added the remark, “he could pay his grocery bills if he 
would let whiskey alone.” 

“Can he get whiskey on credit?” asked Walter. 

“Not a drop,” the merchant answered; “saloon keepers 
know too well they cannot collect their bill by law, so they 
demand cash, and such men as the one who just left here, will 
have liquor if their families have to go without food or fuel. 
They spend their earnings for drink and ask credit for the ne¬ 
cessities of life.” 

“Have you very large amounts charged on your books to 
such men?” asked Walter. 

“Yes; over five thousand dollars, which is ten per cent of the 


[ 257 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


value of my entire investment in stock and fixtures/’ was the 
answer; “that represents also the bulk of my profits for the 
past two years, so that practically I have given my earnings to 
the saloon keepers during that time through their customers.” 

“Did you not vote for ‘license’ at the last election?” asked 
Walter. “It seems to me you business men are standing in 
your own light—acting against your own interests and the 
prosperity of the city—by voting that ticket.” 

“Oh, well!” said the man—somewhat confused—“our party 
leaders favor the license system, to hold every vote possible, 
as the vote runs very close between the leading parties in the 
city; then it lessens our taxes, by adding the license fees to the 
city revenues.” 

“I cannot remain longer to discuss this matter with you 
now,” Walter remarked, “but,” said he to the groceryman, “I 
would like to ask you a question or two before I go. 

“If the saloons were abolished and the manufacture of alco¬ 
holic beverages was prohibited, would not such drinking men as 
have accounts on your books become sober, industrious men; 
pay their bills, accumulate property, pay taxes, thus reducing 
yours and leaving you the profits from your business to pay 
your own, increase your stock or otherwise invest it?” 

As he and his father turned to pass out upon the street, they 
observed a peculiar expression upon the merchant’s face which 
provoked a smile among the clerks who had overheard the con¬ 
versation. 

“Well, my son!" said Mr. Seely, laughing, “you wound that 
man up rather tight; I shall not be surprised to hear of his 
voting right and becoming a better citizen hereafter.” 

“Oh! he is regarded as one of our best citizens now, father,” 
said Walter; “only he appears to have a wrong view of the rela¬ 
tion of the saloon to business prosperity and is too much bound 
to a license party to suit you or me. He is an ex-soldier and 
was loyal to the country all through the war and has stood by 
the old flag ever since.” 

“Well, my son!” remarked Mr. Seely, “many business men 
and politicians do see the importance of having something 


[ 258 ] 


Working and Waiting 


done to break the power of the liquor traffic. Ever since the 
‘War of the Rebellion,’ when sectional feeling was strong and 
bitter, party spirit has run high, politicians have controlled 
matters for personal or party ends to that degree they seem to 
have lost sight of real patriotism and the public good, and have 
connived to obtain the ‘whiskey vote’ to keep or regain power 
and place.” 

“Are there not, think you, more good men in this country 
than there are bad men? Are there not more who condemn 
this state of things than there are who sanction and practice 
it?” inquired Walter. 

“No doubt there are, my son!” said Mr. Seely; “but they are 
not united; their interest is general in its character; it is inter¬ 
mixed with personal, party and business affairs, so that their 
temperance sentiments accomplish but little good for the 
public at large. I think, however, the time will yet come—and 
before many years—when all who love sobriety and good order, 
rising in their convictions and determinations above all personal 
interests or preferences, will unite to support such measures 
and such men as will put an end to the manufacture and sale of 
ardent spirits for drinking purposes.” 

Having arrived at the parsonage, they entered and found one 
of the leading pastors of the city waiting Walter’s return, that 
he might consult him relative to certain matters on which the 
two had been appointed a committee by the “Pastor’s Union.” 

At the conclusion of their interview Walter led his ministerial 
friend to the parlor and introduced him to his father, then 
excused himself to respond to Maud’s call for some assistance 
about household matters. Left to themselves, they were soon 
engaged in a heated debate upon the topic which was upper¬ 
most at that moment in Mr. Seely’s mind. He soon discovered 
and was shocked to learn that the minister held views so con¬ 
trary to his own—views favorable to licensing saloons and in 
support of which he regularly cast his ballot. 

When Mr. Seely declared to him that his “profession and his 
practice did not correspond,” the minister said, with some 
warmth: 


[ 259 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


“I believe in prohibition as much as you do.” 

“Pardon me, but I do not believe you,” said Mr. Seely. 

“Sir!” said the minister, with a show and tone of dis¬ 
pleasure. 

“That is what I mean,” said Mr. Seely, firmly. 

“With all due respect for your age and gray hairs, you 
can’t insult me,” said the minister, and rising to his feet, he 
added, “I repeat, sir, I am just as good a prohibitionist as you 
are.” 

“Indeed! Let us see if you are,” said Mr. Seely; pointing 
down the street he asked, “do you see that building with the 
beer sign before it?” 

“Certainly,” said his listener; “it is a saloon.” 

“Correct,” said Mr. Seely. 

“Now, that saloon keeper is an intelligent man. He votes so 
as to protect his business—first, last and all the time. He be¬ 
lieves in license, talks it, pays for it, and also votes for it. He 
votes the same party ticket you do. Now, sir, will you tell me 
just the difference between your vote and the rumseller’s after 
they are in the ballot box?” 

“I am not responsible for the fact that saloon keepers vote 
the same ticket I do,” objected the minister. 

“Ah! but you cannot crawl through that hole,” said Mr. 
Seely, earnestly. 

“You are responsible for the fact that you are voting the 
same ticket as that saloon keeper, when you know that the suc¬ 
cess of your ticket means, with absolute certainty, the continu¬ 
ation of this infernal traffic.” 

“You speak pretty plainly,” remarked the minister, taking 
his seat again. 

“Yes, sir! I mean to,” Mr. Seely replied. “It is high time 
for someone to speak plainly to your class of men, who preach 
against the saloon, pray for the drunkard, but you vote with 
the saloon keeper for a party which you know to be for license. 
No man is better politically than his ballot. No amount of 
preaching, talk or protestation will discount your vote. In the 
eyes of the government, in the eyes of men and before God, you 


[2G0] 


Working and Waiting 

are no better prohibitionist than the saloon keeper across the 
way.” 

“Now look here, my brother,” said the clergyman per¬ 
suasively, “let us not quarrel over this. We are both working 
for the same end, but we do not agree as to method.” 

“In talking as I do I am not angry,” said the gray-haired 
speaker complacently. “I am simply telling you the cold 
truth, which you cannot deny. You talk about ‘method!’ 
Your method has been in practice for half a century, and the 
saloon, consumption of liquor, crime and pauperism have in¬ 
creased three times faster than the population of the country. 
Either quit voting for license, or stop repeating your false 
statement that you believe in prohibition.” 

“Well, upon my word! that is the plainest talk I ever heard,” 
said the popular minister, glancing at Mr. Seely, then fastening 
his eyes upon the floor at his feet. 

“All right; but tell me, is it the truth?” asked Mr. Seely. 

The preacher paused a moment before answering, then said, 
slowly, quietly, but firmly, “Yes, it is, and may God bless you 
for your candor.” 

“Then, what are you going to do about it?” asked Mr. Seely. 

“Do?” inquired the minister very frankly. “I can do but 
one thing —vote as you do, for prohibition.” 

Glancing at his watch he arose to go and meet another en¬ 
gagement. 

“Give me your hand,” said Mr. Seely, accompanying the 
minister to the door. “Now, you are as good a prohibitionist 
as I am.” 

Walter entered the room just after his friend had gone; as 
he sent a glance after him down the street he observed that his 
eyes were bent upon the walk just ahead of him, and nothing 
to the right or left attracted his attention from his deep thinking. 


[ 261 ] 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Reaping the Harvests. 

Resuming the conversation that was interrupted as he and 
his father entered the house, Walter asked: 

“How do you think the great ‘uprising’ you mentioned can 
be brought about?” 

“In the first place,” his father replied, “the public mind must 
be enlightened, by spreading temperance literature among the 
people, and giving the plain, but scientific temperance in¬ 
struction in our public schools. 

“Ministers can do a vast amount of good by getting the right 
views and attitude themselves relative to the liquor traffic, 
and then arousing the people’s consciences. It begins to appear 
that women can exert a great influence, not only in the home, 
but in public also, by writing, public speaking and organizing 
themselves into temperance societies to agitate the subject.” 

“They have just cause to complain and work against intem¬ 
perance if any class has,” Walter remarked, and asked, “What 
do you think about their voting at elections?” 

To this question, Mr. Seely replied: 

“Women do not very generally desire the ballot, I conclude, 
from what I have read and heard; most of them think that 
voting is man’s duty; but if men will not make such a use of the 
ballot as will right this great wrong, I am in favor of granting 
women the right to vote. Surely they are as well qualified by 
nature as any man, and most of them are better informed as to 
the laws of our country and the duties of citizens, and perform 
those duties better—so far as they are permitted to—than many 
men who vote. 

“I would have the young encouraged to sign the pledge of 
total abstinence; for, while I thought until a few years ago that 


[ 262 ] 



Reaping The Harvests 


I did not need the pledge to keep me sober, I have been glad 
that you signed it when you were young, Walter, and I rejoice 
when I see other boys do likewise. Although I am old, I have 
concluded that signing a pledge will do me no harm, nor curtail 
any needed liberties; it may encourage someone else, hence, I 
sign every total abstinence pledge that is presented, and I 
belong to several temperance societies.” 

Walter smiled, with a feeling of gratification, when his father 
imparted the last information; for, while he had often felt the 
power of his strict habits and sober example, since he banished 
intoxicants from his house and fields, he was pleased to know he 
was so interested and engaged in giving his influence and earnest 
efforts to advance the temperance reform. 

“The pledge may do good to the young—as an educator and 
restraint to them—for such it was to me,” Walter remarked, 
“but how will it be in the case of men who have an appetite 
formed and the temptation to drink ever staring them in the 
face? But for the saloons there would be but few temptations 
to the young to become intemperate; with the saloons, how can 
the great army of drinking men be kept sober if they were once 
rescued and reformed? If they sign the pledge, how many can 
or will keep it?” 

“As I was about to add,” Mr. Seely remarked, “let all edu¬ 
cational influences be continued among young and old, and it 
will not be long until personal conviction and public sentiment 
will make the great majority of men determined and united. 
Laws will be enacted, persons will be elected to enforce them, 
that will put an end to the traffic. Then, instead of punishing 
the drunkard merely, while his family mourns and suffers, these 
will be saved and cared for; any man who will then presume to 
make men intemperate will be severely punished.” 

“It seems like a thing impossible of accomplishment, father!” 
said Walter. “The evil is so widespread and so intrenched in 
social life, in business, in politics—even in the churches—but,” 
he added, after a pause, “I believe God pities the suffering ones 
now as He did the slaves before the war. To overthrow this 
evil is to help more suffering, sorrowing ones than did the 


[ 263 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

fall of slavery. We certainly are on the side that is right, 
and, 

“ ‘Right is might, as God is true. 

Right, the day must win.’ ” 

Dinner was announced, after which Walter said to his father: 
“You have told me how quiet and orderly Plainwell is, how is it 
in Lockwood? Is there any change for the better?” 

“None,” was his father’s reply, as they arose from the table 
and went out to take seats on the piazza, leaving Maud and Mrs. 
Wellington to visit with Mrs. Seely, who was holding Walter’s 
little daughter in her arms while the dishes were being cleared 
from the table. 

“No,” Mr. Seely added, “Lockwood is rum ruled, and rum 
ruined. Occasionally we see some of the effects of its condition 
and influence in Plainwell, when men who live there come home 
intoxicated, while others pass through on their return from 
market. It will be so with any temperance town surrounded by 
those that have open saloons. 

“Lockwood is reaping the harvest of its own sowing; many, 
who favored a license system, have suffered the consequences 
in their own person or families. Doctor Leonard fell through 
strong drink. He, and many others, signed the pledge and 
formed a temperance society—as you remember—but they most 
all violated the pledge, and the society disbanded. The Doctor 
died, leaving his wife and daughters sad and desolate. 

“Justin Boyd inherited his father’s fortune, but he became 
dissipated and died at thirty. Aaron Ridley took charge of his 
father’s business; but he has become a hard drinker; his hard¬ 
ware store is closed and he has gone into bankruptcy since his 
father died.” 

“Too bad! too bad!” said Walter; “those boys were the fa¬ 
vorites in all the school when I attended in Lockwood; but thev 
have been ruined by drink, like many others of my early 
associates. 

“It has been very different with my college chum—Carrol 
Frisbie—who, when he left the farm and college, located in 


[ 264 ] 



Reaping The Harvests 


Plain well—and is now one your most prosperous merchants. 
What became of those hard drinkers who drove past our house 
so often, intoxicated, when I was a boy?” 

“If you mean John Bunnell,” Mr. Seely replied, laughing, 
“his wife got the better of him two years ago. She wrote a 
pledge and compelled him to sign it; she seldom allows him to 
go to Lockwood, and never alone. John and the boys work the 
farm, and she attends to the marketing and money matters. 
They have repaired and repainted their barns, sheds and fences, 
and painted the house a bright color; the appearance of the 
place has completely changed, as well as the personal appearance 
of the family. 

“Mart Eldred moved from the neighborhood, but is still a 
corpulent, red-faced beer drinker. 

“John Giddings moved to Lockwood after selling his farm. 
He has been drinking harder than ever, and is a pitiful, repulsive 
object. His daughter—an only child—keeps house for him, 
denying herself all comforts and company that she may wait on 
him; she is a good girl, and worthy of a better home and father.” 

“Well!” said Walter, with a sigh, “these sad tidings pain my 
heart exceedingly; but they are histories of other hearts and 
homes of which the land is full.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Seely, “and such experiences will be re¬ 
peated until laws are enacted and enforced to remove the cause 
from the state and nation. I may not live to see it, but I be¬ 
lieve you will, my son! I hope you will continue to preach 
against intemperance and the liquor traffic as you have done, 
and that ministers and church members will vote as they pray. 
I also sincerely hope you and your brothers will cast your bal¬ 
lots for total abstainers and prohibition principles. 

“I have not many years of life before me; I feel, how’ever, such 
happiness in working and associating with such Christians and 
ministers as are consistent and sincere workers, I would like to 
enjoy their company here and in the Saviour’s presence forever. 

“I am glad to find you and your family well and happy in 
your own home. The portion of property I intended for you— 
not expended in your education—I am holding for you, as a 


[ 265 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 

part of your inheritance from my estate. You can do good with 
it, if you do not need it for yourself and family.” 

“Rosamond and Clarence are well and happy; their children 
are growing up and are well provided for. I am thankful 
Clarence became a Christian; it saved him from the ruin he was 
fast approaching. 

“He has battled hard at times to resist temptation; those 
who dragged him down before, until all he had was gone, for a 
long time seemed determined, after his reformation, to get from 
him what he was saving. 

“He has been industrious and frugal. From his salary, 
for he is now employed in the state instituion at Juliet—in 
addition to the proceeds from the farm—he has paid off the 
mortgage on their property; so far as I know he is free from debt. 

“He is a changed man; I only wish that all drinking men 
would obtain the same kind of religious experience he received, 
and all wives and children of intemperate men could become as 
happy as Rosamond and her children are.” 

Mr. Seely spoke with a tremulous voice, for his heart was 
filled with deep emotions. Walter could not prevent the tears 
falling from his own eyes; yet his heart was full of joy and grati¬ 
tude that his father had risen above the doubts and question¬ 
ings of his earlier years, and was resting in simple faith in that 
Saviour who had blessed him so richly and so often. 

“The best part of our visit together,” said Walter to him, “is 
to learn, from your own lips, that your last days are being your 
best. Clarence’s reformation and Rosamond’s joy are won¬ 
derful; they are, however, the privilege of all who are still as 
they were—sinful or sad. I know of no other means so thor¬ 
ough, or certain of obtaining their blessedness, but that through 
which theirs came. 

“When you and mother return to them tomorrow bear my 
love and greetings to them and to each of our friends. Ever 
think of Maud and me—as trying—along with all who love man¬ 
kind—to do what we can to save the fallen, while working and 
praying for the coming of a great reform and the achievement 
of CONSTITUTIONAL PROHIBITION IN STATE AND NATION.” 


[ 266 ] 






SUNSET AND REST 

(See Page 270) 






CHAPTER XXXV. 


Sunset and Rest. 

An appeal was made to the young minister by some of his 
flock, that prayer be offered for one of their number whose 
approaching marriage had been postponed by illness, which the 
best physicians declared incurable. The request came as a 
surprising challenge to his knowledge and faith. His college 
instructors and older ministers had not indicated, by word or 
practice, that in these days “prayer” could be relied upon to 
heal the sick. 

Their physicians had failed them and his sorrowing followers 
looked to him, as their teacher and guide in faith and practice, 
for hope and help. What could he do or say in this dire 
extremity? 

So often during his brief Christian experience had he been 
confined to his Bible and prayer for understanding and guidance 
which led to the solution of many problems, so now, Walter 
turned to these two sources of help with a childlike simplicity 
and open-mindedness. He found many instances cited in the 
Bible where sickness had been cured in answer to prayer. 
Many promises were recorded, many injunctions given to en¬ 
courage people to pray for health and life itself. Nowhere 
could he find those promises had been recalled or the injunctions 
cancelled, except on account of sin or unbelief—whatever might 
be thought, said or written in later times about the “days of 
miracles having passed.” 

With such assurance, he notified the widely scattered friends 
of the young lady invalid—wherever they might be at the 
time—to unite, on a certain day and hour, in prayer for her. 
Several weeks passed before the joyful tidings came to him 


[ 267 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 

from the happy bride announcing her restoration to health and 
her marriage. 

Parallel to this experience was the case of one of his aged 
church members, who, rapidly sinking through sickness and 
advanced years, desired a prayer service at her home. The 
physician forbade what he insisted, would hasten her death; 
this being unknown, however, to a few devout believers, they 
met at the invalid’s bedside; during their prayers and songs of 
praise her strength returned to her and she joyfully united in 
their thanksgiving. When the physician called in the morning 
she cheerfully met him at the door. 

Walter little realized that his newly acquired knowledge and 
faith in God’s relation to human life and health, was to do more 
than prepare him for a wider range of helpfulness to those to 
whom he should minister in the future. While pursuing his 
arduous work—mistaking an overstrain for a well sustained 
vigor—he was suddenly stricken down with complicated physi¬ 
cal disorders that put a complete stop to his ministry. 

Among his most ardent friends and supporting church mem¬ 
bers were two skillful physicians. They volunteered their 
services promptly, which, out of deference to custom and the 
wishes of his family and congregation, w T ere accepted. 

Weeks and months passed into years with no relief from wake¬ 
fulness and pain apparent—indeed the physicians admitted his 
case baffled their skill; pronouncing him incurable, they left 
him physically wrecked, just as he w T as approaching the time 
and opportunity for usefulness for which he had so hopefully 
and prayerfully prepared. 

Marveling at his mistake and forgetfulness, he awoke as 
from a dream to the consciousness that, while he had counselled 
his people to put their case and confidence in the hands of the 
“Great Physician,” he had neglected to do so for himself— 
trusting to human skill. 

Humbled and penitent, with his Bible he shut himself up in 
prayer to the Divine Healer. He prayed for forgiveness; he 
asked for a submissive spirit—a surrendered will; he opened the 
Bible, he read its promises and asked for understanding and the 


[ 268 ] 


Sunset and Eest 


spirit of cheerful obedience. For hours he waited in a silence, 
broken only by brief worded prayers or with unvoiced longings too 
deep for utterance. 

Gradually one great desire and purpose pervaded his inmost 
being—to submit all to Infinite Wisdom and Love —to be cured 
or patiently suffer on through coming years—to live or die, 
self—family—life work—all—completely—as far as under¬ 
stood—all tearfully surrendered for Divine adjustment. He 
read: “Be still and know that I am God.” 

In the silent hours that followed he came to know God his 
Saviour as never before. 

As the winter chill passes, when the warm, bright sunshine of 
springtime and summer comes; as the darkness of night and 
the dimness of a clouded day disappear, when the sun rises and 
shines, filling the world with light and splendor, so an unspeak¬ 
able peace, light and joy filled the young minister’s whole being. 
Prayer gave place to the spirit of praise. Unvoiced thanks¬ 
giving filled his mind and heart. Leaving the secret place of 
prayer, he went out to look on familiar faces and surroundings; 
he spoke but few words. 

Like softly spoken words of song, an inward Voice seemed to 
whisper to him these words: 

“If the Spirit of Him that raised up Jesus from the dead 
dwell in you, He that raised up Christ from the dead shall also 
quicken your mortal body by His Spirit that dwelleth in you.” 
Romans viii:2. 

That evening, as his wife had been invited to accompany some 
friends to a church gathering, Walter, when it was time to re¬ 
tire, took their little girl to his room to sleep. 

For the first time in over five years of wakeful nights he went 
to sleep naturally; after eight hours of slumber, as sweet and re¬ 
freshing as that enjoyed by his child at his side, he awoke to a 
new day and a renewed bodily health. 

In four weeks he entered the pulpit again and resumed his 
ministry—every disability removed, every organ and faculty 
of mind and body in healthful exercise. 

While his friends rejoiced with him over his recovery, but few 


[ 269 ] 



Chronicles of a Farm House 


could comprehend the cause, or fully accept his explanation and 
teachings on the subject of Divine healing. To all such his 
simple counsel was “search the Scriptures;” “pray without 
ceasing;” live up to the light you have. 

Giving due credit to surgery and the science of medicine, he 
recognized the liberty and necessity of those who had not 
“faith,” to resort to and rely upon human agencies until—all 
these failing—in their “extremity” they—coming to the Great 
Healer—found it was the “opportunity” He was waiting for to 
help and heal them. 

The years passed, and tidings came to Walter and his wife 
that Mrs. Wellington’s visit to her former home in Plainwell— 
whither she had gone—was destined to be extended into a last 
sojourn. Maud hastened to her bedside and paid her last min¬ 
istries to the one who had been her true friend and mother, 
ere she was laid to rest beside her beloved dead. 

Ere long again the busy harvester entered Plainwell with 
drawn sickle, and Mrs. Seely’s matronly form paled and wasted 
while, with resigned spirit, she sank into the last long sleep. 

Bereft and alone again Mr. Seely sat in the solitude of his 
once pleasant home. His wish became a prayer not long unan¬ 
swered that he, too, might be called away. 

The first snows on his wife’s resting place had but recently 
fallen, when Rosamond hastened from Lockwood to bring him 
from his home in Plainwell, and care of hired nurses to 
her own home and ministries. Bolstered with softest pil¬ 
lows in an easy carriage, he was borne along the highway, amid 
the scenes familiar for many years. Passing the old farm 
house—now possessed by strangers—Mr. Seely glanced 
through the carriage window; his feeble gaze swept over the 
broad acres—scenes of toilsome years. Fixing his tearful eyes 
upon the house and buildings, and leafless trees his hands had 
planted, he said, with deep emotion, “Goodbye, old farm and 
home! We part forever! Goodbye!” 

Swift-winged telegrams summoned Edward, Walter and Mar¬ 
tin from long distances in remote states to their father’s sick 
bed. A few anxious days and wakeful nights of watching and 


[ 270 ] 


Sunset and Rest 


the end drew near. To Walter, who sat beside him in the early 
morning hours, he said: 

“My son! I am soon to leave you.” 

“Father!” asked Walter, “how does Christ seem to you now?” 

“Oh!” he replied, “whom could I look to, in whom but Him 
could I trust in an hour like this? Now, call your brothers and 
Rosamond and her family; I would see you all once more before 

Igo ; ” 

When assembled at his bedside they listened tearfully to 
his calm words of comfort and counsel. 

“Live in peace and harmony, my children!” he said, at last. 
His fervent “Amen!” as Walter prayed for his peaceful passage 
out of life ended his prayers on earth, and soon his praise began 
in heaven. 

His sun of life went down as the morning sunlight burst upon 
the world. 

Old friends and neighbors, from near and far, assembled and 
followed, as his three sons and Clarence Farnsworth bore him 
and laid him down to his last long sleep by the side of the mother 
of his children. 

A few more seasons came and went; again the shadows gath¬ 
ered around the home of Rosamond, no longer on the farm, but 
in Lockwood. This time it was Clarence—the ripened sheaf 
claimed by the grim harvester. 

Feeling himself “a brand plucked from the burning,” he bore, 
as best he could, the pangs of suffering long drawn out; singing 
betimes, he prayed and waited for the welcomed coming of the 
end. 


[ 271 ] 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


Retrospect and Prospects. 

Forty years have passed since the foregoing chapters were 
penned and now appear on the printed page. 

New generations have risen to read their forecasts and note 
their fulfillment. 

Most of those who were living actors and figured in the 
“Chronicles of a Farm House” have entered the Great Beyond. 

Rosamond Seely—in her widowhood, surrounded by her sons 
and daughters, and childrens’ children of four generations—has 
entered her four-score and five years, marvelously preserved 
and actively interested in current life. 

Edward, having attained four-score years, found a respite 
from suffering and ended the battle of life by answering to the 
last “roll call” on Memorial Sunday and was laid to rest on 
Decoration Day. His grave was strewn with flowers as were 
those of millions of his sleeping comrades. 

Walter and Maud Seely have carried into their “three-score 
years and ten,” well preserved faculties, and unabated interest 
in all the religious, civic and social functions of the city where 
they live. 

While no longer the “Mistress of a Manse,” Maud’s home is 
gladdened by the kindly ministrations of faithful daughters 
and the prattle of a grandson who seems to revive again in the 
minds and hearts of his doting grandparents the fond hopes and 
ardent expectations awakened by their first born and only son, 
who, like a bud that formed and faded in a day, came into their 
life and disappeared so soon, leaving the oft recurring thought, 
“what might he have been had he lived?” 

Supplementary to these family joys, and stimulating to their 
vigor, is the continuous interest and frequent correspondence 


[ 272 ] 



Retrospect and Prospects 


and intercourse with the hundreds of homeless or orphaned 
babes and older boys and girls—many grown to maturity—who, 
during the period under review, have come under their care or 
shared their home and oversight until transferred to childless 
homes for loving care and adoption. Many of them are build¬ 
ing homes of their own and rearing their growing families. 

In this beneficent work, Walter has found expression for his 
sympathy for destitute and homeless children, and his apprecia¬ 
tion of what w'as done for his faithful wife and co-worker in her 
orphaned childhood. 

Martin Seely, youngest of the family, in early life sought a 
home on the fertile fields beyond the Mississippi, where two 
generations pay him the tribute due for his years of toil in their 
- behalf. 

Among the great events of the past two-score of years, which 
will mean so much to the homes of the Nation, to Society, and 
the State, was—after a century of agitation—the triumph of 
“Woman’s Rights” and her enfranchisement by State and 
National Constitutional Provision. 

But most wonderful of all—greater than has been the progress 
in inventions—automobiles, telephones, wireless telegraphy, air 
planes, electricity and its various appliances for light, heat and 
power—greater than all the implements for peaceful avocations 
or the horrible devices of a “worlds war”—gas, bombs, subma¬ 
rines—has been the emancipation of America from the “Rule 
of Rum.” 

A Nation’s conscience has been aroused; business, the church, 
the state, the home, have united, and made our country free. 
W ritten in our hearts, adopted in our homes, fostered and 
taught in our schools, enforced in business, written into our State 
and National Constitutions, under a “Stainless Flag” floating 
over a United Nation, the decree is fixed that the brewery, the 
distillery, the open saloon, shall never again curse American 
soil —to break hearts, ruin homes, waste resources, corrupt the 
state, and hinder the work of the Church. Thus we have be¬ 
come a “Lighthouse” to warn and guide other peoples—tossed 
on a sea of booze—to the safe and peaceful harbor of sobriety 
and prohibition. 


[ 273 ] 


Chronicles of a Farm House 


The streets of Lockwood, Juliet, Chicago, like tens of thous¬ 
ands of other villages, towns and cities, seldom ever present 
the sight of drunken brawls nor drunkards reeling homeward or 
being led away to prison. Crime is being diminished; jails and 
prisons have fewer inmates. 

True—many violators of the prohibition law are discovered. 

The “Hooch still,” the “Blind pig” and “Smugglers” sup¬ 
ply those who clandestinely seek to quench their lingering 
thirst, developed in the open saloon. 

Adequate enforcement laws are being sustained by the high¬ 
est courts in the land, backed by public sentiment; violators of 
Prohibition laws are brought to justice. 

The Government has expended ten million dollars a year 
enforcing the law. To offset this outlay, it has received sixty 
million dollars from fines imposed on violators and property 
confiscated. 

More and more shall the Farm Homes of America enjoy their 
rights, and supply “brain and brawn” for every enterprise 
and sustenance for our people. “Back to the Farm” shall men 
and women turn for truest freedom and prosperity. In a new 
and wider sense than ever, is America to become the granary of 
the nations, the Deliverer of the oppressed, a potent member of 
the councils of all people, the Almoner of Mankind. 

Hail! All hail, to the LEAGUE OF VOTERS for a dry 

world. 


COMMENCEMENT. 


[ 274 ] 














































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